It’s still mild out there
Jacqui Wiley
It’s the beginning of November. Wind blowing, trees rustling and it’s still mild. Seventeen degrees outside. Rain, persistent. There’s a yellow wind warning, a storm brewing. Amy is its name. Funny that; my daughter’s name was Amy. She was the epitome of a storm. Not a storm in a teacup, full blown. She, like this storm, would bring temperatures down just as Met Éireann predicted.
It’s still mild out there.
The Accu-Weather app shows rain hourly. Temperatures fluctuate from 15 to 17 degrees, dropping as the day moves on. Each hour shows the red triangle, for wind. Warning of Storm Amy. That too is descriptive of my Amy. Full of wind and not the kind that makes bubbles in the bath. Full gale force.
It’s still mild out there.
Met Éireann say the wind will increase to storm force in coastal areas. They are describing my Amy to a tee. ‘Some sunny spells developing.’ Yes, that’s my daughter, sunny spells, all smiles and beauty, until she had them… hook, line and sinker. Then she changed, just like the Met Éireann national outlook. ‘Turning cooler with unsettled weather continuing into the following week.’ Amy continued long after that. Her longest spell lasted more than three years, leaving chaos all around her. Debris of families torn apart left right and centre – thrown against the eyeball as she stepped into the eye of the storm. Calm and satisfied with the destruction she had caused.
It’s still mild out there.
Pulling on a light rain coat and hat, I face the outside world. I need the rain to shower down on me. I need the wind to batter me, to punish me for my offspring. Leaves fall on my head and swirl at my feet. They too are angry. There’s no rustle or crunch. They’re wet. I shiver. I long for a dry day, to enjoy their changing colours. To heal. But like the laden-down boughs of the trees swaying from side to side not knowing which way to turn… I too am in turmoil. Where did I go wrong?
It’s still mild out here.
Cars pass and I wonder if some of their occupants are her victims. She used her friends like feeder bands in a hurricane. Befriended vulnerable girls to drink in their stories, like unpaid drama classes. She was studying, learning to act the victim when she was finished with her prey. I wondered if there were there any pet black widows called Amy in the world. Her female friends didn’t know that they were her thunderstorms, her clouds drawn to the centre of her storm as she played out her role.
We don’t have hurricanes in Ireland, but if we did, the perfect name for one would be Amy.
The worst storm we had in 50 years was in 2017, Ophelia. It was then Amy claimed her first victim. Not physically of course. Like Ophelia in Hamlet, she portrayed a woman in psychological distress at her ex-partner’s funeral.
I think of how karma works as I close my front door behind me. It was on a short break away to a coastal village, with another of her victims, late January this year she lost her life during Storm Éowyn. Eoin, the name of the young man she tormented and tortured. She blackened his name. Now, in the afterlife, he had reclaimed it.
Yes, it is still mild out there.
Jacqui Wiley is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Aspiring writers welcome.