To me, thunder at bedtime is unlike thunder in the morning
It hits me differently, speaking to me in a different voice
If it comes through the house while I’m getting ready for bed, it finds me sleepily brushing my teeth, with my left hand flat on the countertop, elbow locked to support my weariness
My right hand dutifully brushing, dislodging all the delicious bits that remain from the day’s meals and sneaky treats
One of my feet is usually raised, left and right taking turns, bending at the knee, rubbing a heel up and down against its opposite calf, working at itches left behind by my socks.
When I’m tired, I slide my feet into my slippers and step down, crushing the backs forward with my heels. At bedtime, I simply lack the energy and commitment to slipper care enough to bend at the waist and use my index finger like a shoehorn for the proper fit
Over time I turn my slippers into clogs
Nighttime thunder is a call to slumber, a beautiful, growling, baritone lullaby
My bed becomes its warm embrace, the distant rumble a blanket of deep bass notes wrapping me up in its cocoon for a good night’s sleep
Morning thunder has a different voice, like when your mom uses your proper first name, or worse, your proper first name and your middle name
It gets in the house through a different window maybe, I’m not really sure
It still finds me brushing my teeth, same position, same footwear, scrubbing away the night, using the time to remember my plan for the day
Morning thunder makes the dawn less inviting, raising the day’s degree of difficulty
It’s dark out there when it should be light, and feels dreary and makes me sad
My bed is made and is not accepting any lodgers until tonight
I try to remember where I put my umbrella after the last time it rained, and if there’s lightning, I worry about a power failure
The rich baritone rumble that I love at night is by the light of day a bit of a jerk, coloring the day a melancholy grey
My weather app tries to make it better by telling me how long the rain will last and when it will start and stop
That helps, I guess
As I back out of the garage, the car’s headlights come on automatically, and the windshield defroster smells like dust from lack of use
Highway-commuting veterans become timid and uncertain, driving slowly, increasing my travel time
When I finally make it into the building, I stomp my feet on the entryway carpet to dislodge any parking lot leaves and detritus that hitched a ride on my now soggy shoes
Everybody that comes in stomps their feet like that
Thunder
