When I was a kid we'd be allowed to stay up past our bedtimes when a thunderstorm was coming to Western New York. We'd all gather at the picture window, which Dad, maybe Mom, smartly chose when they built the house in '61 to look out over our long back yard, which led out to nothing but forest and swamp for thousands of acres, and watch the show. It's a wonderful thing to remember, and brings the pain of my good momma's still so recent departure bubbling up. I love it, strangely enough.
Here's to you, Mom, and those lovely thunderstorm nights you gave us. (And here's to Buffalo. Hope you're alright, everybody.)
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