A July Thunderstorm
A July evening. I am riding my bicycle home from my grandmother’s house. The clouds are gathering, merging into a single grey-blue mass that gradually obscures the sun. Suddenly, the sky grows darker. I get on my bicycle and pedal as fast as I can, hoping to make it home before the storm arrives.
Then, just as suddenly, the air grows warmer. It feels like the stillness before a real storm. The wind strikes my face, and the wheels creak as they roll along the asphalt.
I make it home.
The street seems to have been covered with a black veil. All that can be heard is the rumbling of the dark blue sky. A light drizzle begins, its droplets striking the paving stones in my courtyard. The rain grows heavier, and lightning joins the storm, illuminating my room again and again.
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This resonance of sounds, colours, and sensations fills my eyes and ears. Everything around me feels somehow unreal. There is nothing but flashes of light and thunder. It awakens a familiar feeling – that inexplicable childhood fear and anxiety.
When I was little, I used to hide beneath my blanket, tucked into my small bed. Now, I stand by the window, watching the cold rain beat against the glass.
I wonder if it will ever break through.
The rain stops as suddenly as it began. The sky grows brighter, and the sun finds its way back into my home. I open the window.
There is almost nothing left of the storm. Only the tears still running down the forehead of my house.
And just like that, another storm has passed.
