Love breaks over me like a summer storm on the midwestern plain.

I am driving L to the playground and the shadows of the leaves from the trees above move in slow motion over the waxed hood of the car. But the emotion is swift. Relentless. Flashing.

And I know where it’s come from.

H and I have been having trouble working out the details of a move south: All of our plans have floated away like jetsam in the current of a water main break. I’m on the verge of calling my old therapist, but am reluctant to not be jumping with arms open toward the sea of a new life from the cliffs of this one. Still, we’ve called the old couple’s counsellor who seems happy to see us.

I realize I am wrong about the summer storm. It’s maybe even more powerful than a sky that cracks open the humidity without apology from a moody curtain of dark clouds; it is strong with the sweeping rains that move in wave of fury and relief over the land.

I want to pull over and cry, but L is waiting to put on his skull-and-cross-bone adorned helmet and zip across the black top on his razor scooter.

My breath evaporates and I can’t even sing to the Weezer song blasting through the radio.

I know I’m not supposed to succumb to this. The therapists and counselors say it is too co-dependent. But I indulge anyway. The loss of myself is a way back to what’s important and it is sublime.