The sky this morning was dark.

Dull and heavy gray, the color of dirty mop water left in kitchen sink.

Unpleasant dark gray, dirt, dust and murk.

Grandma mopped her floor at night.

She dusted little mahogany shelves lined with tiny puppies, angels, bells, and kittens.

Pretty pink ceramic roses,  so many little “nic-nacs”.

Forgot to drain the sink after hanging the mop from a nail on the back screen door.

She’d say, “Look at that, you better not be trackin’ dirt in my kitchen again.”

Early this morning, the trees were bent to their sides by the wind.

The kind of morning, at my grandma’s we’d have been real quiet.

All of us, cousins at grandma’s,  the little white house on the hill filled with love, pancakes and butter cookies.

We’d have moved to the settee and sat straight up, feet dangling over edge, stiff and still.

Knees touching, a straight line of cousins, staring out the picture window, through the corn field towards Aunt Gloria’s.

We’d have sat there until the rumbling sky was a whisper not a jolt.

Until the wind no longer wrapped around us, sang its whistling song of swirl.

Because, my grandma would say, “This is the Lord’s work, be still.”

So, I wanted to cancel my trip today; wanted to be still.

Worried over my daughter driving before dawn.

Uneasy about the wind, the rain, the roads.

Prayed for her, journaling  “Keep us safe, Lord…help us not be anxious.”

The little girl in me, round freckled face, crooked pixie cut bangs shielding shy blue eyes

Remembered her grandma’s instructions,

Remembered her grandma.

Be quiet.

The Lord is working.

The storm will pass, she said.

And it did.