It is funny the way the storm—its shifting patterns of tropical winds, its straightforward highways of lightning—unites places one might never put together, places otherwise strangers to each other.
Yeadon to Radnor. Strathmere to Wilmington. Bryn Mawr to Kirkwood.
The red and purple gouges work their way over the map as the crow flies, efficient and uncaring. We are soaked by the same downpours, buffeted by the same gales.
The storm does not know or care that there is no bridge over that part of the Delaware River, or that there’s construction on Route 141, or how bad Schuylkill traffic is at this time of day. It races from town to town, point to point, connecting us in a way we might never have connected ourselves.
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