A glass of warm milk for miles.

When I was a teenager, finally old enough to drive, I would ache for weather like there is tonight. My mom and I lived alone in a big house most of my teen years. My part of the house was upstairs where my sisters used to live and her part was the corner opposite down stairs where she and my father used to live. On nice nights I would climb over the balcony railing and scale up on top of the roof of our two-story compound and lay 30 feet above the ground watching the stars. But on nights like tonight, where the rain and thunder threatened all day but waited until my mother fell asleep to unleash, I would quietly slip out. Those stairs that led from my room to the entry way and the front door screamed more than they creaked. Something happened to me in the womb, or maybe in the excruciating and arduous full-day labor of my birth, but I was granted a great patience. Quiet breaths and careful steps. Adaptability. As I slowly crept step by step down that curved staircase it would feel like hours as I waited for a flash of lightning to sure my next footing shrouded in thunder clap. I would even count the seconds between the prior bright smack and its boom so I would have a better idea of when to set my foot down the next time.
I carried my shoes in my hands. Sometimes I didn't wear shoes at all.
14 shitty-grey steps with carpet nails poking through on the corners were the ladder of decent between our red-bricked landing and me. Once I got to those heavy oak and flimsy glass doors I'd slowly open the first, for a full minute just to be safe. All but shutting myself between them before opening the second door to keep out as much of the sound of the storm's spatter and gale as I could. On the porch I would focus only on my station wagon parked under the tree by the well house in the front drive because frankly the wooded darkness scared the absolute shit out of me. I'd run to the green Volvo, fling open the unlocked door and get in and finally slowly pull it closed until it latched, I'd properly close it once I was out on the street, where I'd also turn on the lights.
The late night drive out to the lake on the east side of town was my ultimate goal but the stealth and escape were equal parts of that sum. Driving in the heavy rain for six miles with no lights around save for my car's headlights was always bittersweet. I'd feel the tug of shame that I'd snuck out and the fear that my mother might wake up and find me gone with no way to find out where I was. There was no cell phone, but I wouldn't have brought it if there were. There was also the liberation of total solitude, driving to nowhere, meeting with no one, setting out to find nothing. Except for the eventual bridge that crosses the lake. That was the holy moment; dimly lit by orange floodlights illuminating thick, heavy curtains of precipitation hanging on either side of it. The water was out there on either side and below me but I wouldn't have known it if I hadn't had prior knowledge. Like the white-sheet tent built with ace bandage rafters strung between the bedposts and doorknobs in my childhood room, I was book ended by oblivion.
That was my favorite part.
After the bridge I'd turn around and make my way home, repeat the same process in reverse, still taking every careful measure to slip in undetected like a hungry mouse or careful ghost. Picking up each footprint I’d left behind. Crawl into bed, sleep a sleep of intent.

When I awoke tonight in a stir from a phone call and couldn't roll over enough times to fall back asleep I carefully slipped through the crack of my bedroom door which is at the top of the staircase in our downtown apartment which leads to a heavy glass door which leads to street. There was no rain; I have no car to run to. I still slowly made the climb down the wailing staircase and carefully slipped out of my front door. Now there's a cell phone and roommates that worry enough to come looking. I still leave it behind. I walked around this sleepy town, through the sleepy neighborhoods, listening to the far off thunder. Once I was far enough away for my feet to be almost too tired and the wind had cut far enough through my jacket to chill my bones the rain spilled over the brim of the clouds and it began to pour. So I turned around and began my walk home down the orangely-lit streets. My mother who lives across town must have finally fallen asleep.