Rachel Roseberry '11 | Winter 2013-14 | Notre Dame Magazine
I was 22, and we were sitting on the front porch of our hotel looking toward the wide West Texas plains. We could see a storm on the purple horizon. Dark clouds gathered over this mystical Trans-Pecos territory, hushed, dusty and devastatingly full. There seemed to be more air, more sky, more lonely beauty than I knew what to do with. And the storm that was gathering seemed more storm-like, the lightning more vivid, more crudely yellow than anywhere else I’d ever been.
He watched with fascination, eagerly looking forward to spending the evening observing the ragged storm play out over the big sky. I watched with fear. “Can’t we go inside?” I said. All I could see was the lightning striking the dry ground and a wildfire starting miles away in the dry scrub brush. I saw the disappointment in his eyes. “Couldn’t we just stay out for a few more minutes?” The wildfire made it to me in seconds, was licking at my worn sandals. “I need to go.” I ran into the hotel to hide under the futile cover of sleep in our hotel room, protected from nothing and pretending, flimsily, that the four walls were enough to hold out everything.