One Page #25

Patrick looked out the kitchen window at the waves that crashed dramatically on the beach below. Rain was splashing against the windowpanes making pink pink sounds as if it were hail. But I was unseasonably warm out for spring and it felt more like an August thunderstorm. The wind was fierce and the petals were blowing off of the newly opened daffodils and Patrick knew that his mom would be upset when she went outside the next morning. His parents had already gone upstairs for bed and his sister was long asleep in her crib at their bedside. He was alone downstairs. The lights were mostly off except for one leading up the stairs and he leaned against the kitchen window wondering how strong the wind would have to be to shatter the glass and carry him away, across the ocean, to a new land. He would ride the wind faster than his bicycle would carry him, and even faster than the family’s station wagon would carry him. He would fly faster than he had every gone before and arrive at this new land to discover faeries and unicorns and dragonflies the size of his arm. But the wind wasn’t strong enough and the glass panes held their weight and he could only watch the storm rumble across the sky, leaving streaks of lightening it its wake and blowing sand from the beach across the road. Tomorrow he knew their car would sputter against the sands resistance and he could already hear the crunch of shells and pebbles beneath the tires. He always planned the night of storms to get up early the next morning and see the wreckage before anyone else was up, but he never did. Sleep held him captive. He hoped that this storm would bring in a pirate ship that would anchor itself off the shore and send rowboats to the beach. Pirate would pillage the town, wreak havoc among the neighbors, and meet Patrick, shake his hand, and haul him off into their rowboat and out to sea where he would live among the scraggily fellows who stole their food and gold and sent shivers up the spines of all the people in all the land. He would wear a bandana over his head and a black and white stripped shirt and he would say ‘ello matey with a casual but threatening voice. But he didn’t see any pirate ships. He heard the foghorn from the point just south of his house and around a few corners and inlets. But it was dulled by the crashing waves and the rain pounding the roof. He opened the window just wide enough to stick his head out and soak up the rain, he hair laying limp and plastered against his forehead and face was drenched with the skies tears that tasted salty just like his own. After a moment he retreated back inside and knew his mother would be upset with the wet kitchen floor.