Lightning in the Water

Margaret sat on the metal lounge chair, her toes dangling in the cool water of the apartment complex pool. At seventy-eight, she'd earned these quiet moments before dawn. The ancient golden retriever, Buster, lay beside her, his graying muzzle resting on her slippered foot.

The summer storm had passed quickly, leaving behind that peculiar stillness Margaret remembered from her childhood on the farm. Her grandfather used to call it "the Lord's quiet time"—those moments when the air itself seemed to hold its breath after lightning split the sky.

"You're getting old too, aren't you, Buster?" she whispered, stroking his velvet ears. He'd been her daughter's dog originally, a puppy during those chaotic years when single parenthood meant Margaret moved into her daughter's garage apartment to help. That was fifteen years ago. Now her daughter was remarried, her grandson was in college, and Margaret had finally moved to this retirement community.

The pool's surface rippled as a memory surfaced—unbidden and sharp as the lightning that had just streaked the sky. Fifty years ago, she'd been sitting by a different pool, this one at a motor lodge in Wisconsin, when she first laid eyes on Frank. He'd been arguing with the clerk about a room reservation, his shirt collar unbuttoned, his hair wet from rain. She'd fallen in love before he even noticed her watching.

The black rectangle on the table beside her—a gift from her grandson, who insisted she needed "to stay connected"—suddenly chimed. Margaret fumbled with the smooth surface. Sarah had showed her three times how to answer video calls, but her arthritic fingers still struggled with the swipe.

"Grandma?" The face on the screen was her grandson's, beardless now, a young man she hardly recognized. "Are you okay? We saw the storm on the news."

Margaret smiled, tilting the phone so Buster could be seen too. "We're fine, sweetheart. Just the weather clearing up."

"Is that Buster?" The young man laughed. "Hey, old buddy."

Margaret watched them both—her grandson's bright young face, her old dog's gentle eyes. Suddenly, she understood what people meant about the lightning of love—how it strikes without warning, how it illuminates everything, how its light can carry across decades, through rain and time and even across this small glowing screen that still felt foreign in her hands.

"Grandma? You still there?"

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here. And I was just thinking about how lucky we are—for the lightning, for the rain, for being able to say I love you before the sun comes up."

Buster stirred and whimpered softly, dreaming of rabbits. The pool's surface smoothed again, mirror-still in the gathering dawn. Some things, Margaret thought, you don't need to swipe to understand.