Thunder and Holy Water

The screened-in porch smelled of roses and fresh cut grass. Grandma dealt out another hand of Gin Rummy. Grandpa sat in the glider a Chesterfield in hand. His beer glass was half full; the cool brew making the glass sweat in the muggy August air.

I dipped a chip in the homemade onion dip.

Thunder began to rumble. I rain squall started suddenly. Grandma went inside the house. She returned a minute later with a plastic bottled shaped like the Virgin Mary. Lighting flashed, followed by an almost instant thunder crash.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” grandma said, splashing us all with holy water.

All these things married in perfect symbiosis, on a lazy summer afternoon.