Do you think that storms have memory?
Because I do.
Because some winds seem to circle back, not in chaos,
— but in ritual.
They arrive not with fury, but with familiarity.
A hush that knows the way your name sounds when spoken calmly.
And the rain returns,
— like it’s been here before, knocking not on the rooftops but on the skin of something long hidden.
The sky, at times, feels sentient — like it grieves in private and watches me in silence.
— And in those moments, I wonder if the clouds could carry archives.
If low pressure is not a forecast but a memory.
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If thunder is not a warning but a recollection spoken in a tongue we forgot how to translate.
I’ve known storms that seemed to trace old outlines,
— winds that curled through rooms like they’d once lived there.
And I’ve felt the weight of weather that did not seek to harm ,
— only to remind.
Perhaps they are not coming for me, but from me.
Drawn to the things we leave unspoken inside the rafters.
The house, after all, remembers more than we do.
So yes, I think storms remember.
And not because they are cruel, but because they, too,
— are haunted by what never had the chance to settle.
