It’s the twilight hour.
My husband’s settled in to watch the Tigers’ game with me. But he’s dozing.
A frantic call from my daughter interrupts the outfield scramble. “Grace is in the field behind your house screaming. She’s not moving. She’s just standing there screaming, ‘Help me!’ I sent her through the field for a couple double-A batteries, but she’s standing there just screaming.”
My husband’s chin is stuck to his chest. I kick his foot and shout, “Wake up! Something’s wrong with Grace! She’s screaming out back.”
Amazingly, he wakes, jumps up, and the cat in the lap tumbles off. The floor shakes and the sink dishes shiver and papers fly off the kitchen table and his gray rubber indoor flip-flops (the ones I hate) smack his feet as he races through the house. He moves faster than he did the time I missed a couple steps and broke my foot when the smoke alarm (that turned out to be the weather radio) shrieked in the middle of the night.
I pause at the Hoosier to snatch up the batteries before I run out of the house barefoot, across the concrete, into the prickly grass, and around the corner of the garage in the direction of the shrieking . . .
Why all the shrieking? Read the rest of this story over on Jumping Tandem: The Retreat’s blog.
In the stillness,