Sarah Flanigan - Poetry Simply Put

I remember rain. Lots of rain. Endless rain. It was good for reading books, baking cookies, watching movies and napping.

Tapping at my window, while I slept, it proved that I held some small piece of real estate in the world. A minute corner with my name on it. I could let go of it and dream for a while. Knowing it would be there when I returned.

A piece of gray. Mist and vapor, blurry views and shivers. I pulled my robe around me tighter, as though that would keep out the chill. But the chill came from inside, from some deep and dark place that never warmed, that never calmed. If only the sun would show itself, I would feel safe.

I picked this place for its beauty and remoteness. Because it was surrounded by woods and wild flowers - celebrated by squirrels and skunks and badgers and birds. I could walk for hours without ever seeing another soul. I could let the dog out to adventure without worrying about cars and traffic, cruel neighbor children or anything more serious than his being skunked.

But the rain didn’t stop - and how it soaked through to the core and left its chill to invade every living thing. The trees bent like gumby dolls trying to embrace it. The sky filled with it and liquified the ground beneath its relentless assault. Pots caught the drips as they wept from the rafters. The damp spread like varicose veins throughout my little farmhouse and ensnared it in its web of wet, dreary gray.

Turning up the thermostat only made the damp warm and steamy. I put poker to the fire and the flames spurted and sputtered. I needed more firewood - my last log had been sacrificed to the fire.

Mulroy, my golden retriever, followed anxiously as I pulled on rubber boots and threw my slicker over my robe. I sighed. I didn’t want to go out there. The bruised sky, angered and violent, dared anyone to defy her.

“Come on, boy.” I opened the door and cursed the sheets of water separating me from my wood. My source of warmth and solace. It was nestled in the shed, under a bright blue tarp and probably dryer than I was. An easy walk on a cool evening. A mere fifty feet from where I stood. But I could barely make out its shape through the vaporous curtain that the air had become.

I put a leash on Mulroy, hoping he would lead me to the shed rather than drag me through the mud. Perhaps I should have reconsidered. Should have listened to the nag in my head. But I shook off my doubts and plunged ahead with Mulroy. I would be soaked by the time I returned, but I would have in my possession the holy grail of lonely, rainy nights in the country. Wood. The source of all warmth and safety. The embers of life.

Delighted, my dear Mulroy galloped like a randy pony in the middle of it all. Puddles and mud flew into oblivion in every direction beneath our stomp and jump. I tugged on his leash to rein him in and help me to the shed, but Mulroy was too joyous an animal to ignore the adventure.

Several slips and mud successfully oozed into my boots and we made it to the shed. It was colder and damper in the shed than the house and I worried it was all for naught. The wood would smoke and refuse to catch but I was there and so was it - the choice had been made.

I had no flashlight or lantern, just the thinnest fingers of grey light through the open door. I threw back the tarp to get at my treasure and a plump rat leapt out and we shrieked at each other. Mulroy barked and took chase after the varmint as the leash slid through my wet and frozen fingers. “Damn it! Mulroy!” I peered through the open doorway and saw nothing but the sheets of water that pummeled the earth. “Where are you? Mulroy!” A distant bark, my only answer.

“Fine!” I gathered the driest logs into my carrier. “If he wants to get soaked to the bone in order to chase a damned rat, then fine!” I was mad at myself for being there. I should have just let the heater do its job, as poorly as it did, at least I wouldn’t be soaked and shivering and trying to figure out how to carry more wood than I was able to the house. Without getting it wet. “You’re out of your mind, Georgia. Just forget it and go back to the house.”

But my stubborn streak wouldn’t hear of it. No, I went for wood and I would return with wood. Period. I spied the wheel barrel behind the many rakes and tools I was convinced I needed once, but languished in the shed without notice. An annoying reminder that I’d never organized as I’d resolved to do countless times. Moving the tools only succeeded in wedging me between the wall and the stacks of everything else I had crammed into the shed. With a grunt, I wrenched the wheel barrel free. Thunk, went the wood. “That should do it.” I was proud of myself for my ingenuity. Soon, the fire would be blazing and I’d be reading my trashy novel and eating popcorn. I could taste the buttery, salty crunch in my mouth with the thought of it.

There wasn’t enough room to turn around with the heavy load, I would need to back out. I tugged with one hand and pushed open the door with the other. Easy does it. Ignore the thunder of the rain, just keep moving . . .

I heard a creak or a crack - was it Mulroy, back to help? And everything was falling down and the sound, oh the sound was so painful, so loud . . . crashing all around me and on top of me. And everything went black.

***

I opened my eyes but could not see. My brain told my arm to move but it could not. It was cold and wet and I could not move, could not feel anything except a weight . . . a pressure. “Mulroy,” I called with all of my voice but it was a hoarse whisper. The rain crawled over me and tortured with icy hands. And the world went black again. And I felt the overwhelming urge to let go. To join the blackness that surrounded me and dive in. Like a warm, cottony embrace that whispered of comfort and safety. My eyes popped open - and the heat of fear surged through me. I was not going to die in a shed, on a rainy afternoon, alone and helpless.

“Open your eyes, Georgia,” I told myself. I looked around, willing my vision to adjust to the shades of black and grey. I tried to see my arms and legs, to connect with them and get them to help me. Ah . . . my left hand wiggled. “Good. Now, where are you? ” I talked to myself as though a drill sergeant to a recruit. My vision slowly adjusted. And I could see some light above me - the source of the cold wet - part of the roof had collapsed and I was buried beneath it. Though not all of me, my left side was wedged beneath the wheel barrel, which was probably the only thing that kept me from being crushed. The door was behind my head and closed - I would have to inch back toward the door to try to escape. I took the deepest breath I could and willed my body backwards. “Ah!” The pain. Blinding. White.

My ears strained for Mulroy’s bark or whimper. “Mulroy,” I croaked. Rain, drumming on everything it hit. Another deep breath and push back. Stars this time and a shock seared through my body. “Again!” I commanded myself. I was not going to die beneath a collapsed shed in the rain. I would not stand for it. If I could only wrench my left arm free. Pull. Pain. Tug. More pain. Scream my head off, let the pain out and tug some more. Tears of fear and frustration raced down my face and joined the rain. I tried again and the blackness came.

From a distant place I heard him. A whimper, a cry, scratching at the door. “Mulroy? Here boy.” The bark came then, loud and welcomed. “Here boy, come to mama,” I egged him on. “Here boy,” I said again and again, sending him into a frenzy of need to get to me. He barked, scratched, whined. I heard his big snout taking in the scent of me, his mistress, his safety. Big paws thwapping at the door, nosing at the door, trying to get in. “Here boy,” I kept calling. “Come here. Here, Mulroy, here!”

And then I felt it, his nose on my face, his slobbering tongue licking my hair, my eyes, my cheeks. “Good boy,” I wept. “Good, good boy!” I had to get my arm free. I had to find the leash. I had to! “Ahhhh!” I screamed and it was free. My breath, shallow rushed in and out of my lungs. My heart pounded louder than the rain. Slow it down, had to slow it down. Focus!

“Good boy, Mulroy,” I reached for his snout and he nuzzled my hand. “Good boy,” I murmured. My fingers crawled down his neck for the collar and found it. They held fast, fearful of letting go - but I needed the leash. Where was it? My fingers were so numb I barely knew what the clutched. “Good boy,” I said to soothe myself, “good boy.” Slowly, I loosened my grip on the collar, tentatively seeking the leash, the strong leather leash that would be my lifeline. Metal, cold and brilliant made contact with my fingers, the connection to the leash and life itself. Yes, I had it! I pulled hard and Mulroy backed up - little. It would work. It might work. It had to work. “Back, Mulroy, back!” My beautiful boy obeyed and I started to move back with him. “Good boy! Good boy!”

He pulled and he pulled. My arm shrieked with pain but I concentrated only on being pulled free from the pile of wood and rain that trapped me. An inch at a time, the pressure lifted, my right arm free I reached over my head to join my left and held on during the white light of agony that surged. “Back, Mulroy, back,” I said endlessly. My boy always obeying, struggling but relentless. He would not leave me. He would die with me if he had to because he would not leave me. And with the final tug, I was free of the wreckage and I lie there, crying and laughing and unable to move.

Crash. The shed took its final leap and collapsed. A pile of sodden wood and tin that could no longer fight the rain. But could Mulroy, wet and shivering pull me the rest of the way home? A mere fifty feet that seemed impossibly far. I had to roll over on my stomach and crawl. If I could crawl and Mulroy could pull, we might make it. We might get home.

The sky opened up again and poured down on us. Lightening crackled and thunder boomed as though the earth would break open up wide. The pain was lost in the fear and I rolled. “Back, Mulroy,” I screamed in the roar. “Back!” He pulled and I crawled and the mud threatened to eat us both and swallow up what was left of us. “Back, boy, back!” And the blackness came again.

“Georgia?” the voice was soft and melodic. My eyes fluttered open and I felt the warmth of the sun soak into me. My heart soared and the fear fell away. “Georgia?”

I could not see for the sunshine in my eyes. “Who’s there?” My eyes could not see.

“Stay with me,” the voice cooed.

“Where am I?”

“Stay with me and you will be happy,” the voice came again - but different.

“Who are you? Where are you? I can’t see . . . ”

“You must stay with me,” the voice lost its benevolence. “Stay with me!”

My eyes opened to the gray and rain. So cold and afraid. Mulroy and I lie on the porch. He nestled against me to share his body heat. The rain thundered on the roof of the porch but did not pour down on us. We were home. Almost. I lie still and tried to feel my body. Was it a broken, useless heap or could I move? I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything but the cold and wet and numb that had been mine for . . . how long? How long had I been trapped? How long had it taken us to get here?

Deep breath, get up on all fours. Collapse to the floor. Another deep breath and will myself to my knees. “Here boy,” I whispered and he came to me, crying and cold. I could lean on him and he would let me. My hand found the doorknob and turned and we crawled inside. We were home. We were safe.

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