THE WEATHER BREAKS
by Ron Singer
Somewhere between Kennebunk and Jay, the weather broke. In New York, there had been a
killer heat wave, no breaks there, it wouldn’t go away. Brain dead, we packed poorly (“Luggage
of the Living Dead”), then aired up and fled.
In Kennebunk, where we stopped to pee and get gas, the humidity made us blink. “Oh, no, not
here, too! No, please!” Back in the air, on up the highway, cut off till we stopped again, in Jay,
for groceries. “Hey, it’s gone!”
By the time we reached Weld, in the western mountains, you’d never have known. A blustering
westerly doubled the trees. Fast-scudding clouds swept past the farm, as if they needed to be
home before dark.
Next morning, we heard it on the radio: “The weather has finally broken … storms up and down
the east coast … a hundred thousand without power.”
Henry, our landlord, came by to say hello and collect the rent. “Well, yes, it’s been hot here, too,
but not so bad. We heard about what you folks went through down there.”
We poured him the last of the coffee, wrote the rent check, and sat on the porch enjoying the cool
blue mountain view and cool blue mountain air. “Maine,” as they say, “weather like it used to
be.”
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