Short & Sour

Approach of the Cumulonimbus

Reeve Key thought—wrongly—that May twenty-first would be a relaxing day for him. He had taken a day off from his job at the local post office to stay at home watching cheesy sitcoms, making pasta, and attempting to knit a scarf from a pattern found in an online magazine. It was supposed to be a peaceful day of engaging in domestic bliss, something he often forgot to do in the midst of the pressures that came with modern life.

    Then again, domestic bliss came with its own pressures. About fifteen minutes into his knitting, Mr. Key hurled his spool of bright yellow yarn across the living room, where it harmlessly bounced off of the TV (airing reruns of Friends) and landed on the head of an oversized stuffed bear. A disingenuous laugh track accompanied this action, at which point he snatched the remote and promptly shut the program off.

    He had come to the conclusion that knitting was not a blissful activity.

    It was around this time that the front doorbell rang, introducing the first element of chaos into this story (or perhaps the second? the incident of the yellow yarn can also be considered chaotic).

    The doorbell announced the arrival of Reeve's eight-year-old son, Winston Key, an inquisitive young third-grader with a knack for annoying everyone older than him and coddling everyone younger than him. This fact, combined with modern technology and an abundance of free time, meant that living with him was like living on the East Coast of the United States during hurricane season—the next hyperfixation (or high-energy cyclone) could come ashore any time, and one had to be prepared.

    But Reeve grew up in South Carolina. He grew up driving through pounding hail and chasing lightning and praying to the ancient weather gods he learned about in school and finding shapes in the gray clouds that peppered the horizon before storms.

Well, perhaps that's a little exaggerated.

But the point still stands—Reeve wasn't afraid of a little rain! Sure, he drew the line at localized flooding, but rain? Rain was good. Good for the plants, good for the soul.

    "Hey, Dad," Winston said as he hopped up the steps into the townhouse and hung his blue jacket on the coat tree. His eyes were squinted in concentration, tightening up the rest of his little face's features.

    "Hey, Winnie," Reeve laughed, amused by his son's expression. "What'd you learn about in school today?"

    Winston didn't bother to look up at him when he answered. "Clouds."

    Behold! The second element of chaos in this story!

    "Clouds?" Reeve followed Winston as he walked upstairs. "What about them?"

Winston didn't answer, choosing to hum lightly to himself as he sprinted past the crayon-stained walls waiting to be painted over before their landlord's visit and the array of crooked family pictures hung up above arm's reach. They mostly featured the young boy partaking in assorted antics at the zoo (chased by an ostrich), in the park (climbed a tree up twenty feet), and in front of a pounding waterfall (seconds after the photo was taken, he fell into the river).

Now, still in his green uniform, Winston situated himself on a barstool in the kitchen and pulled up a plate, waiting expectantly to be served.

    "I learned about all kinds of clouds," Winston continued as Reeve poured him some of the incredibly saucy pasta he had made earlier.

    "Interesting," Reeve replied.

"Mrs. Rolan says that she used to study the weather before she became a teacher, and the cloud classification unit is her favorite." Grabbing the packet of shredded mozzarella cheese Reeve had left on the counter, Winston began to sprinkle it over his meal like snow as he spoke. His face remained stoic and serious. "I spent the whole bus ride looking out of the window and watching them."