When Lightning Strikes Twice

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four — thunder confirms the storm is closer than before. My wife and I, estranged as we may be, count the lapse between sight and sound as lightning approaches our quaint southern state reflected in the river that gave it its name. A picture window offers a view of the scene as if we’re theatregoers watching a movie. Down the hall century-old floorboards creak accompanied by the sound of pattering feet, the very same that like to play Five Little Piggies and belong to a being that still believes in the Easter Bunny. Someone who considers losing teeth a money-making scheme.

Our bedroom door opens inward followed by a wisp of brown braids and Wonder Woman PJ’s. A freckled face, tear-stained and distraught.

“Mamma!” Our daughter screams jumping into the bed, into my wife’s arms, just like I used to.

“Shhh,” she soothes, stroking the superheroes back. “It’s only a storm. It will pass.” Which brings to mind that old saying; This too shall pass, an adage that, on this occasion, elicits more melancholy than comfort. After all, aren’t some things in life not meant to be fleeting? Like the love for one’s daughter? The love for one’s wife? The vows one made on their wedding night?

Likewise, aren’t some things in life not meant to be quantified? Not meant to be counted? Like love and happiness? Pleasure and pain? Sometimes even time refuses to comply with man’s obsession to keep tabs on it. To lay claim to something that only exists in their imagination like goldfish with three-second memories effortlessly attempting to count to four.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississip — the heavens echo, low and long, rattling the windows and walls.

“Maaam! Make it staaap!” Wonder Woman pleads, burying her head beneath the blanket and sheets.

“Shhh,” my spouse repeats, cooing quietly while rocking from side to side.

Sometimes I can’t help but feel forgotten. Ignored. Unwanted. Unwelcome in my own home like an intruder. A sour taste on one’s tongue. A splinter stuck in one’s skin. Try as you might to pry it out only to bury it deeper, letting it fester by the bone.

On my nightstand a framed picture sits featuring our first family portrait. I look at myself, at that man posed next to his smiling wife (still carrying some of the baby weight), the infant in her arms, and think That isn’t me. It can’t be me. I must be an imposter. An imitation. This is all just a case of mistaken identity. I can’t explain it, but somehow I have gotten my life mixed up with a man who looks just like me, a man with a family, and now he is out there enjoying my life unencumbered by a wife whom he no longer loves, a daughter who pretends he doesn’t exist, and I just need to wait for something to Freaky Friday me back into my own body, back where I belong. Something like lightning, or to think real hard and count to three.

I close my eyes and concentrate. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three — thunder groans, our daughter moans, but I remain in this body. In this bed, a life raft lost at sea.

I look down at my wedding band (simple sterling silver unadorned of detail) and wonder what my life would be like without it. Without this woman who insisted on picking out her own; a repulsively oblong diamond set in the center of an otherwise divine gold ring. Would I be happier watching this storm by myself? Without this child, trembling, begging for mercy? Probably not. Because despite all that my life is, all that it isn’t, the fact that hers exists has brought more meaning to mine than I ever thought possible. She is the river that has swept my soul to sea. She is lightning illuminating a night sky, mesmerizing and spectacular.

One Mississippi, two Missis — the thunder is much louder now. The storm has reached the river, a trespasser from out west. Rain ricochets off the picture window, descending upon the roof in drones.

I feel so alone. I feel like someone else deserves my life, someone who would appreciate it more. Someone who wouldn’t fall out of love with his wife but further in, exploring more realms of the word than I could ever imagine like a great conquistador or someone on board the Starship Enterprise, boldly going where no man has gone before. Warp drive, engage!…

Light fills the sky. A tree explodes on the riverbank, leaving nothing but a charred stump where the trunk once was. One Missi — the clouds call out. The storm is almost overhead.

…Instead I resign myself to my fate, a prison inmate with conjugal-visit privileges. The unattended member of the PTA. An unhappy man who, if his ears ever burned, it would be for the worse.

I do not consider myself a good person. I do not believe I am bad, per se, I simply don’t look at life with such black and white binoculars. My nostalgia extends to early Eminem and Donkey Kong Country. My superstition to assigning meaning to dreams and fingers-crossed emojis. I am romantic when I can be (whatever that means) and I prefer odds over evens. I do not believe in soulmates. I do not believe in love at first sight. I don’t believe in the afterlife or the Second Coming of Christ.

At last, thunder and lightning unite right above our house, the sound overwhelming our ears. Rattling our teeth. It sounds as if the sky itself is collapsing.

“AHHH!” A superhero screams, because sometimes it’s okay for even Wonder Woman to be afraid.

No, love — like lightning — does not strike twice. It is unjustified and elusive. It is jagged and unpredictable. It may wax and wane. It may ebb and flow. It may come and go. It may stop in for a brief reprieve only to sneak out in the middle of the night, never again to return. And though they say, “Tis better to have loved and lost,” I can’t help but grieve for all that love has cost me.

At that very moment lightning strikes a second time, reverberating throughout the house, ripping through the roof.

“DADDYYYY!” Our daughter screams, grabbing hold of me along with my wife who looks into my eyes like she did on our wedding night. She’s terrified, I realize.

And so am I.