Storm Of Mothers

 No one knows what to expect when the storm of mothers reaches landfall along the West Coast. As it blows through Seattle, clouds part, golden bars of light pierce the gloom, glistening the top of the Space Needle. “Come get your vitamin D,” the storm of mothers says. The storm of mothers moves down through Nevada, hovering over the Las Vegas Strip where it stops a group of working girls glittering under lit up signs in their sequined miniskirts and skintight, leopard spandex. “Did your mothers let you leave the house looking like that?”
People in cities with more advanced warning tidy up their rooms, take out the trash, and scrub their bathroom tiles sparkling clean before it reaches them. In Estes Park, Colorado, the storm of mothers barges in, asking, “What in the hell are you smoking?” It detours west for a moment, straightening up mudslides, pushing fallen boulders off mountain passes, cursing as it trips over Pike’s Peak, threatening to bring a garbage bag next time.
The Kansans don’t exclude themselves from preparation when they see it heading east, they are pros when it comes to storms, and they’ve already tended to their wheat and corn fields in neat rows for inspection.
From Oklahoma to the Texas Panhandle, the storm of mothers begins losing momentum. Some Texans decide not to bother moving out their rusted, broken-down tractors outlined with weeds, or organize the piles of scrap-oil piping, recyclable plastics, and appliances in their yards. They pull out tables and chairs, set out glasses of fresh-brewed sun tea. The storm of mothers plops down, removing its sandals, dabs the rest of the moisture streaking down its front wall. A vocal cord cracks like a lightning strike when it says, “Our work here is done.”
No one misses the lectures, but a feeling of directionlessness sets in as the storm of mothers becomes a mere wisp of air, disappearing as a clear vapor into the thick red sunset, telling everyone, “It’s getting late, lights out kids.”