The Storm

Waiting for the lights to come back. A memoir by Rommy Nelson

Photo by Daniel Norris on Unsplash

When the storm came, I wasn’t prepared. When the lights went off, taking with them our main source of heat, I wrapped the kids in blankets, afraid of turning on the fireplace. I ran in my head a list of the food items that we had, and then we sat on the couch, my toddler and I, while I was holding the sleeping baby—blissfully unaware of her mother’s distress. I was waiting for the lights to come back while my toddler told me an elaborate story. I nodded without listening. My attention was focused on the howling of the wind, and on the snow that was falling over our small town in Connecticut, covering everything with a thick blanket.

My toddler got me out of my head by pulling my arm, “You’re not listening, Mommy,” she said in an accusatory way.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I replied.

“It’s ok,” she said, before continuing with her babble.

But I couldn’t help it; I knew what she didn’t. I couldn’t tell her that I was worried because the storms in Connecticut could be long-lasting. The snow from the trees could easily fall on the electric poles, and its weight could break the wires; which wouldn’t be easy to repair, except that there are more trees than electric company employees, and the fixing could take a while. Just a few months ago—when her sister had been born—the whole state lost electricity for over a month. We were the few lucky ones that only lost it for a week.

When that happened, I learned that I needed to be prepared. I started buying canned fruits and veggies. I learned how to turn on the propane fireplace, which my husband had solely done—afraid that I might blow the whole house away. But since his work had started taking him away for weeks at a time, I knew that I’d have to do it myself sometime, even if it terrified me. This was the time, but I was still feeling unprepared.

“Are you ok, Mommy?” my toddler asked.

“Uhum,” I mumbled, but she tilted her head and looked at me.

Can three-year-olds read minds? I wondered. So I added, “How about I bring you a toy?” just to get her distracted. When I came back, I looked out the window. The glow of the snow falling reflected by the light of the moon gave it the impression of a lighted vail. Our front yard was fully covered with it, and so were the trees that surrounded our property, the streets, and the neighbors’ houses.

I imagined how long it would take me to go down there by crossing our long driveway, all the while carrying an infant and holding a toddler’s hand—unless her legs were too short to cut through the inches of snow, forcing me to carry her as well. I shivered at the thought.

But then, my toddler jumped on the couch and said, “Wow. Look Mommy!” while pointing outside the window. I tried to share her enthusiasm, but all I could see were the whites of the tops of the trees, balancing precariously over the electric cables. “Let’s go play outside!” she yelled.

“We’ll play tomorrow,” I replied. She puffed, disappointed.

I walked to the fireplace while holding the baby with one hand and placing a blanket on the wooden floors with the other. I carefully lowered my sleepy infant on it and turned the flashlight on my cell phone—making a mental note of the battery life. Next, I sat on the ledge next to the fireplace, trying to remember to light it the way my husband had taught me. After a second try, the yellow glow of the fire finally covered us, and my toddler clapped in excitement. I wondered how long it had been since the storm started. I didn’t check the time, but I knew there was still daylight then. Maybe I should call my husband, I thought. But then I realized that he was on the other side of the world, probably already asleep. And what could he do anyway?

I looked away and noticed my toddler staring at me with her mouth open. Then she smiled and said, “You’re making funny faces again, Mommy.” I realized that I must have been frowning and puckering, something I do when I think.

So I made a funny face, twisting my head to the side and sticking my tongue out in the opposite way, and she laughed. I grabbed the infant, who woke up with the noise. “I’ll bring you a book,” I told my toddler while holding up her sister. Then we sat all together to read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” for the thousandth time. We eat cold sandwiches and canned fruit, and then we read again.

While I was trying to improvise beds in the living room, the lights came back. I cheered while my toddler complained that she wanted to sleep in the living room. I was about to tell her we could tomorrow night, but then I saw her face. I improvised a tent instead and we played until she started to rub her eyes.

After helping her brush her teeth, I brought the kids back to their room. My toddler hugged me when I placed her on her bed. “I had the best time today,” she said, her eyes already closing. I planted a kiss on her innocent head.

I turned off the lights, but before I left I stood by the door. I stayed there for a while, watching the baby peacefully sleeping on her crib, her pink and white mobile rotating around with an old melody. My toddler’s hand was hanging out of her bed, while her red lips made a perfect oval. I felt the peace of the outside weather finally settling down on me. I realized that I also had the best time today because I already had everything I needed. The next time the storm came, I knew I would be prepared.

---

Rommy Torres-Nelson (she/her) is a Hispanic writer, whose work has been published in Oak Tree Journal. She is also a member of the Southern California Writers Association and the Society of Children's Writers and Illustrators. When she's not reading or writing, Rommy can be found playing with her children and their Goldendoodle, River, or working outside in her garden.