The sky split open.
I was re-reading the end of On the Road again. I was thinking about Dean Moriarty. I was thinking about the kind of friend that could write you 18,000 words in a letter, hitchhike halfway across the country to see you only to be left by the side of the road in a moth-eaten coat. I was thinking about God as Pooh-Bear.
I was fighting the urge to call California. The phone rang. It was a friend from California. Then the sky split open. The power went out for a few moments, and I timed a thunderclap that took 30 seconds to subside. And the rain poured.
It was calmer when I hung up the phone.