It was coming. I didn’t need the weather man to confirm it on the local news, or for my friends to share the warnings on their Facebook feeds. The storm was coming and even though the black clouds would mix into the moonlight and the wind would destroy everything in its path, I was chasing the idea of the marbalized sky, longing for my hair to blow around me as I stood in the eye of it all. No, nobody needed to tell me this storm was coming because I had a front row seat to one of the biggest downpours yet.
Ever since I was little I remember the way these fronts would make me feel. Laying in bed, the idea of the rain and gusts turning into something larger and more destructive was… thrilling. I longed for another lightning strike, hoping it would only take half a second for the thunder to roll in. The closer the cracking and the brighter the light were supposed to be warning signs, but instead I would lay in bed wondering how many times the strikes could hit so close to home before our luck ran out and they came through the walls.
It’s the inability to know what’s going to happen that makes it so addicting. Will the storm leave something as beautiful as a rainbow? Or will it become so vengeful that it destroys every obstacle in its way? Maybe it passes through just loud enough that those close will know it had visited?
When sirens would blare, I wouldn’t freeze or become panicked. Instead I would embrace a sense of disappointment, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before my mother would sweep me into the basement. The cold, dark basement made of nearly sound-proof concrete walls that hosted no windows to the beautiful disaster taking place just feet away.
Living in the Midwest, I’d experienced my fair share of storms. The ones that blew roofs off of local hardware stores and ones that made the lights flicker during third period. Ones that made your car shake in the open parking lot. Ones that rattle the glass doors of your place of employment. Ones that just offered a pitter-patter on the window of your living room. Yet, none of these storms prepared me for the one that was on the way.
This storm was nothing like the others. It wouldn’t present the wicked clouds that I dreamt of or the cracks of light across the sky. The weather man wouldn’t warn you to take cover or run quick and your friends won’t ask you about chasing it on the back roads. Why? Because they can’t. This storm will be invisible to the naked eye. This storm will silently creep into our lives until it chooses to self-destruct, hurting everyone close to it.
It’s the type of storm I don’t welcome. The type I wish never came. The rain is heavy, but falling right on the sunflowers that make my father smile. The lighting strikes with no warning because the sun shines in the background. It’s uncontrollable in a way that’s too frightening. It’s untracable in a way that’s upsetting.
This particular storm was brewing inside of my mind and it was only a matter of time before it left wounds on everyone who came close – especially me.