Weather

When the weather in the east
decides once again that it is going to make another attempt
to wipe us out, or at least hurt us
Barbara Walton calls me

She is out west languishing
with no teeth in a nursing home
with no more of her precious cats
with no more husband
with no more family
with no one near her most of the time

But with a television that tells her
that the eastern weather is once again irate
And she can still use her phone

“That storm is about 500 miles away from us, Barbara,” I say with a smile

I smile because I know she
just wants to talk
And I want to talk with her, and we talk
with great amounts of humor
with musings of the past
with mourning of severed companionship
with long stories, sagas of yesteryear
with tales that are more present

“Goodbye! I’ll talk to you soon!”

The weather stomped its feet once again
with temper flared, pounded its chest
there was wide open mouth screaming
with uvula flapping
and it beat us with its fists

But now Barbara Walton is gone

Do your worst, weather
Because when you do
I smile
and remember my friend