My mom owned a mobile home, and she always drove so far beneath the speed limit the only thing we could do was sleep, or else we’d get mad at her for driving so slow.
“I’m winning the race against all the other homes,” she’d say, cackling to herself. We never laughed back.
Then one day a storm rolled in—black skies, thunder and lightning, funnel clouds, the works. Rain and hail pelted the top of the camper and my brother and sister and I thought we were doomed. It was the first time our mother drove fast.
“Slow down!” we said. We could barely see out the window; the wiper was whooshing back and forth but making no headway against the elements. But we could see the speedometer climb, and feel the momentum of the camper as it picked up speed.
Then, miraculously, the rain and hail and darkness went away. The sun came out. The clouds were white instead of black. Looking out the window behind us, we saw the storm cloud, like space opened up and reached into the Earth. We were outrunning it.
We never complained about her speed again.
Day 356’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Mom in a street race,” “A mobile home,” and, “The calm before the storm.”
Nine more days!