We held hands and waited for the storm to hit, waited for the sirens to start and the wind to howl. We sat there quietly and didn't say much other than "Are you OK" every minute or so, as if that did something and changed things. We were in an empty bathtub, in the basement, we thought it was hilarious that there was a tub down there when we moved. There were creaks and groans and moans and rain fell.
"Should we pray?" she asked me. "Pray for what?" "I don't know," she said, "just in general." I wasn't sure I knew how to pray anymore, but I suppose there's no wrong way to do it. "Do we have to do it out loud?" I asked. She smiled and squeezed my hand.
If we were silent before we were wrong. The silence that followed is the kind that comes from inside, from where noises aren't even made, the kind that hollows you out. I prayed for her and for our families, for people I didn't know, and for things like trees and birds and neighbors. I didn't think to mention myself so when I opened my eyes "Did you think of me?" "Of course," she said. Our hands were red and painful, neither of us realizing how tight we were holding on. And from above we heard the sirens calling out, telling us to take shelter and get somewhere safe. And looking at her and my red hands that's exactly how I felt.
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