19 Mar

I remember great thunderstorms at my home, summer thunderstorms, all heat, big raindrops and flashes of light. I could hear the thunder rolling in, becoming louder, and my mom, in her excitement gathering all us kids onto the side porch, in the big, cool rocking chairs. When I was little I would sit on her lap. The raindrops would then begin slapping the roof, harder and louder until we could barely hear one-another speak. And my mom, eyes wide, as if we were witnessing something holy, told us to be quiet, which we were. Lightening flashed all around. The dirt grew pungent. The plants grew greener. Sometimes mom would get out of the rocking chair and sit on the porch steps, so close to the storm those big rain drops sprayed her face and the wind flew through her red hair, throwing it around her face and shoulders. Eyes closed, she told us to come closer. Never afraid, we did, until we too could feel it on our faces, the beats from that wild storm dancing crazily through our summer night. The storm came fast, and it went away faster, leaving a dripping rooftop to squint through and everything soft and lovely with rain. We went back inside and fell into our beds, dreamy with sleep.


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