Coughing Up a Storm

By Joey Kirk

Editor’s Note: This is just a rough draft of this piece of writing. I hope to continually add to it.

The sun begins to fade as thunder roars louder than the pipes of the Harley-Davidson he had been riding all day. Smoke seeps from his lips as he flicks the ash and cigarette butt to the ground and stomps it out as if the embers would catch the dry, brown grass on fire on contact.

He coughs.

The sound is more frightening than the storm on the horizon. Before this moment, nothing has ever terrified me more than the spine-tingling sound of thunder.

As a child, and even now, I am constantly scared of the powerful force of mother nature and how her fury can rain down. Where the fear stems from is difficult to determine, but storms always seem to signify traumatizing and emotional events in my life.

Several years ago, I remember standing in my bedroom. On my desk, my phone begins to play music and the vibrations cause it to fall off onto the floor. I kneel down, pick it up and answer it. On the other line is my mother.

Her words pierce through my heart, race through my mind. Rain falls against the window. Lightning flashes as the thunder follows.

“You’re grandfather has passed away,” she says.

My stomach shatters. I can’t breath. Tears begin to fall. The news comes as a shock, as if I had just been electrocuted.

About two years ago, I remember sitting at my desk during a long night at work. My phone begins to vibrate. I feel the repetitive motion against my thigh. I dig in my pocket, pulling out the phone and answer it. On the other line is my mother.

Her words hit deep inside, and at that moment, thunder shakes the newsroom. Lightning flashes through the windows. Rain smacks against the panes of glass.

“We had to put Blackjack down,” she says.

My heart splits. I can’t breath. A downpour of tears begins. I drown in sadness.

The constant roar of thunder or the flicker of lighting sends me back to these moments. The rain doesn’t soothe. It terrifies.

And at this particular moment, I am not terrified, but merely concerned. It becomes more violent, and then he hunches over in exhaustion.

He coughs.

“Dad, are you all right?” I ask, believing he had just gotten the thick cloud of smoke caught in his windpipe.

As I question his well being with minimal concern, he stands erect once again and spits out toward the grass. Blood leaps from his mouth and hits the grass, looking as though the red substance is scorching the earth.

“I’m fine,” he replies.

He coughs.

I make a promise. I know in my mind, in my heart, that I shouldn’t make the promise, but I do it anyway.

“Don’t tell your mom,” he says. “I’ll be all right.”

Ignoring my gut, I say, “OK.”

The thunder disagrees with the decision. The sound rumbles the windows, briefly deafens me and reverberates deep inside my body.

As we drive back down the busy streets of Murphy, he lowers his window. Again, blood leaps from his mouth.

He continues to assure me, “I’ll be OK.”

The thunder’s roar seems to signify otherwise, and I become terrified.