rhythm of the storm

i have a memory from my childhood

that i think about once in a while

when a storm rolls in, rapping on the door

and watering the plants.

i had predictable fears as a child:

spiders and vegetables and thunderstorms.

and one night, rain patterned the roof

and slicked the windows and thunder

growled and barked like a wounded animal

and lightning splintered kettle-black clouds

with wiry limbs like flashing neon signs.

i hated every moment and i think that

it annoyed my father because he took

me to the window and said, “look, look

at the lightning. see how pretty it is?”

i watched and stared and looked

looked looked but it was not beautiful.

it was scary and so i said, “no.”

he said, “look again. it’s pretty. it’s shiny.”

and so i looked again and thunder rumbled

and the raindrops cried and lightning flashed,

spiraling through the sky, barreling along its electric path, stumbling and sizzling and subsiding.

and then—

thunder rumbled and the raindrops cried and lightning flashed and for a moment, when it split the world in half—dark and light—shadow and plasma—i saw something.

a little beauty, a little sun.

and so now i lay in bed at 12:46 AM

and it is drizzling and thunder is humming

and i wait for the lightning to flicker through the blinds,

softly, softly.

i wait for a reprieve from the darkness,

for a lullaby to rock me to sleep,

and in the rhythm of the storm,

i close my eyes and wait for the light.