A memory of the storms
|I remember the sound of the rain on the window; the cool breeze in the air. The never fading, never ending grey sky watching me from above.
I remember the feel of the warm, thick Christmas jumpers against the chilling wind. They were soft; it almost felt like I was wearing a blanket. They felt safe and familiar.
I remember hiding in the jumper when the storm would strike. The lightning, like sparks of fire through the curtains; and its friend the thunder, knocking on my door wanting to be let in.
I remember the sound of my own squeals when cracks erupted in the air; my mother’s warm arms encircling me, whispering caring words to sooth my anxious self.
I remember the silence, the end of the fight between the clouds and the rain; the quiet seemed unnatural after the ruckus of the storm.
When I believed it was safe, I dared to venture to the window, but only with my teddy by my side; he was something I could rely on, something I remembered. The curtains revealed a familiar sight: the never ending grey skies stretched as far as I could see; that image was somehow always a sweet comfort.
I remember how I squealed when the storm came and changed nothing.
I remember the comfort of the jumpers and the warmth of my mother.
I remember feeling at home.