It started raining just after noon in Jefferson, Iowa, not a drizzle, but one of those heavy, sideways Midwest downpours that make you second-guess whether you closed the barn door. Dave was already out driving when it hit. He could’ve turned around, but something about the storm made him keep going.
It had been six months since he lost Mary. Fifty-four years together. Cancer. Fast. Quiet. Too quiet. Since then, the days felt longer and the nights even more so. Friends dropped by for the first few weeks, casseroles stacked in the freezer like a polite wall against grief. But after a while, folks moved on. Dave understood. He’d done the same when others lost their people. That’s just how it goes.
Today, the silence in the house felt too thick, like trying to breathe under wet blankets. So he grabbed his keys and headed out on old County Road 11, not knowing exactly where he was going, just away.
The storm rolled in hard. Windshield wipers struggled. Fields blurred into puddles. Still, he didn’t turn back. He kept driving, the rhythm of rain on the roof matching the hum in his chest. Memories surfaced, Mary humming in the kitchen, Mary reading on the porch, Mary calling out “Drive safe!” every time he left, even to the gas station.
Eventually, a fallen tree blocked the road. Dave pulled over near a little country church and waited. The rain clattered on the roof like applause, fierce and wild, as if nature itself was throwing a fit.
And then, just like that, it started to slow. He cracked open the window. The air smelled like wet earth and corn. And peace.
He looked out at the drenched world and realized something: the storm hadn’t destroyed anything. It had just moved through. The barn would be wet, but still standing. The fields would drink it up. The road would clear. And so would he.
Dave sat in that truck a good while longer, engine off, watching clouds drift and break, letting the quiet back in, not as a weight, but as a companion. He didn’t need to be fine. He just needed to keep going, even if it was through the rain.
When he finally turned the key and headed home, the sky was lighter. Not clear yet, but getting there.
Just like him.