Hazel By Seth Published July 28, 2017 It took them a week to find me. I almost despaired. They found me here. Here ... In this quiet, restful grove of trees. Though back then, it was neither quiet nor restful. I was driving home, along Weston Road, that grey Friday evening. The radio forecast rain. "Big deal!" It had already been raining for the last three days. Maybe I should have given that some consideration. I turned down Phillips Street. No traffic to speak of. Odd. I braked. Phillips now ended in a lake of black water. "What in ...?" I glanced toward the horizon. A solid wall of dense rain was coming quickly at me. So quickly ... that the pool in front of me ... was now all around me. A moment later ... I was scrambling up onto the roof of my car. For dear life. The "pool" had become a torrent! I don't swim ... well. So I waited. This was Ontario. This was 1954. Help would come. To my great relief, a firetruck appeared on the distant "shore." A ladder rose up. But too late. By then I had been swept from my slippery perch. I thought of my wife ... as the cold water pulled me under. A lovely person. Fade to black. The water deposited my body in a soggy grove of broken trees. "There's one down there." What few leaves survived were vivid red and yellow. For me, this grove remains perpetual autumn. Perpetual night. And I am always here. This place is quiet and restful. And I am calm. Untroubled. Even when October rains fall. Factual information from "Hurricane Hazel" by Jim Gifford, Dundurn Group, 2004.