The Feelings that Linger Past the Beeping

The climb to the top of the sand dune is arduous. But we know, all Rudds know, all Michiganders know, that sand dunes are always worth the payoff.

Past all the sweaty exhertion. Past corralling small children to keep trecking up the narrow wooden stairs or through the hot sand. Through the sparse trees that form a small woods just before the ridge of the sand dune. After carrying this Igloo Cooler with both hands, awkwardly bumping against your thighs with every step up. Past all the strained attempts at conversation with your parents who haven't come to the beach with you in years, but feel chatty today, now because they have.

We crest the dune and the payoff is there. Lake Michigan spreads as wide and beautiful as it always is. It is just this beautiful no matter when we return to it. Even if we visit when we're awake.

And my dad had just begun to spread out our old wool picnic blankets here at the top of the dune and the kids were already digging in the sand when we noticed a crowd reaction. First far away, and then, immediately, all around us. People were screaming and pointing. Classic crowd panic.

We followed their pointing and gazing conversation. My parents pointed out that policemen were ushering people back down the dune toward the parking lot. Policemen and lifeguards. Lynn gathered Jaelyn and Addison together. Ready.

"Oh look," I pointed out, relieved, "it's a tornado."

Tornados. I have seen countless tornados like this one barrelling toward me and sometimes large groups of people. I know that we have plenty of time to slide down the dune and duck. I start to point out the beauty and grandeur of the swirling clouds to Jaelyn and Addison. I want them to love and embrace the beautiful violent parts of nature.

But before I can explain to them about the tornado I look again. The crowd hysteria around us is worse. It's not a tornado.

It'a a fleet of foreign bombers flying directly toward us just above the coast below. At any moment they may start dropping their bombs.

I change my demeanor toward my children. I stoop down to prepare them for running and bombs and maybe death, but always love. I know that I need to be gentle as i explain this to them. But also clear and fast. They should feel more love than fear when this is all over, I purpose as I lean toward them.

The alarm clock goes off. And I wake up violently. I cannot return to the dream to explain to my children what I need to. The ugliness of impending horror lingers as I grind my coffee beans.