The only illumination in the house came from the lightning flashes that never seemed to take a break. The walls of the dark hallway seemed to press inward and the small Bible in my lap was slick with the sweat from my hands.
“It’s just God playing bowling,” my sister informed the baby in an effort to get him to stop crying.
I looked away and peeked through the doorway to see our mother pacing in the kitchen, the phone pressed to her ear and a cigarette waving through the air as she spoke. I hated the storms, and being forced to sit in the hallway and listen to half-cocked stories about Jesus and God in an effort to ward off the danger.
My mother hung up the phone and approached us, scooping up my brother and looking at my sister, “Come on. We have to go.”
She took my sister’s hand, leaving me. I ran along behind them into the fury that was outside the house.
“You are so slow! We’re not gonna make it and it’s your fault!” my mother screamed over the wind and the thunder and I moved faster, not old enough to bear that responsibility.