The Taste of the Storm
by Jamie Lackey
Clouds gathered on the horizon, even though no wind churned the smooth face of the gray-green ocean.
Marlene scowled. "The weather witch is angry again."
"This is the third one this week," I said as lightning flickered between the clouds. I looked at the boats docked in the still water. At my father's boat, still tied where he'd left it before the stroke. "This can't go on. Sooner or later, someone's going to get hurt."
"There's no way to control or predict her. We have to take it as it comes."
It wasn't worth arguing with Marlene about, but I was done taking things as they came.
I stopped on my way home and bought flour and sugar and eggs. I kissed my father on the forehead and listened to the beeping machines that kept him alive.
When the storm hit, I opened the kitchen windows and captured the smell of the rain, the crash of the thunder, the sizzle of the lighting as it lit up the dark sky. I collected the feeling of standing in the cold, driving rain, with mud swirling around my ankles and water dripping from my hair. The rain that streamed down my cheeks tasted like despair.
I baked all night. I folded the captured storm into stiff-peaked meringues and whipped it into frosting.