On Storms

Somewhere, very far from me, there is thunder.

I miss thunder so.  There is very rarely thunder here. There is no rumble of the coming storm, no auditory equilavence of Nature’s fury, no trembling air that makes the body shudder with that display of Gaea’s power.  There’s no lightning, leaping and dancing from cloud to cloud to earth.  No flashes in the sky, no scorching of the earth, no gasping “how close was that?” and counting seconds till the booming roll.

I miss thunder.

I miss lightning.

I always felt safe in storms, somehow; like whatever mean and terrible things were in the world couldn’t hear me in the pouring rain, couldn’t see me in the flashes of lightning.  And sometimes, when I wanted to cry and couldn’t, I felt the clouds cried for me, cried with my heart, in the downpours, and the rain running down my face was a more than suitable actualization of the tears streaming down my soul.  Flights of fancy, perhaps.

Funny how, much of the time, my desire to cry coincided with the appearance of rain, there.  Here, not so much.

There is an equalization, in storms:  everybody gets rained on.

I liked the sudden downpours that sneak up from nowhere, rain big thick heavy drops for half an hour, and move on as quickly as they appeared.   There was a lesson in them, that storms are temporary and can be weathered.  They reminded me of that, in times when it seems as though the storms in my life would never pass.  I wonder if I have forgotten that lesson, or at least not held it as close to my heart as I used to.

I miss warm rain that felt like it was washing away troubles from the skin.

I miss storms, and I shall to content myself, for the nonce, with living them vicariously.

I’m gonna be pissed if there’s no storms while I’m down there.

SK