The Storms We Carry

I’m seven.

White sheets of rain slash sideways as I stand, powerless, in the open doorway.

“Dad!” I call.

Where is he? Leaves and mangled branches whirl down the road like the panic spiraling inside me. I can’t find him. Winds whip my hair into my face. Raindrops pelt my cheeks, mixing with the tears rolling down them. Choked screams crack from my throat.

Finally, through the curtain of rain, a silhouette emerges from the haze. He wraps his arms around me and I cling to his wet coat; my shelter in the storm.

I’m ten.

The floor trembles beneath me as lightning fractures the darkness in the house through its cracks. My brothers take turns passing me the tiny rubber elephants we grabbed from the toy box. I line them up on the windowsill. Rubber resists electricity. We need more.

We trudge through the hallway to each of our bedrooms, racing to grab what we can between flashes of light. We return with a bouncy ball, rubber bands, and some more jungle animals. The windowsill is filled just in time. We huddle on the floor beneath the window.

Another explosive thunderclap shakes through the house. And then it’s pitch black.

It wasn’t enough.

I didn’t know it then, but I would carry that feeling with me long after the storm passed. The need to prepare. The need to know what came next. The need to find something I had missed that could have changed the outcome.

I would become very good at looking for cracks before they appeared.

I’m eighteen.

An emergency alert shrieks from my phone at the same time as the robotic voice cuts through the TV: “A tornado warning has been issued in your area. Prepare to take shelter immediately.”

I coax my dog and cat into their crates, shut all of the doors so we’re in the innermost room of the house, and place a pillow over my head. My phone is fully charged and in low-power mode.

Rain begins as a soft pitter patter overhead before hardening into a relentless hammering, almost loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

Sirens wail outside, at first growing louder, until their pulsing is slowly swallowed by the roar of the rising winds. The walls groan. It sounds as though the roof might be ripped from my home at any moment.

I remind myself that I am prepared for this. If I anticipate and plan for the worst, surely the worst can’t surprise me.

A splitting crash erupts from just beyond the door next to me, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering and shards clinking against the hard floor. I lace my fingers through the grates of the kennels and squeeze until my knuckles ache. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

A flashlight sits beside me. My shoes are laced, just in case. But all I can do is wait.

The rest belongs to the storm.

The warning finally expires. I slowly open the door to find the hallway littered with glass, leaves, and other pieces of the outside world that had forced their way in.

Carefully, I step over the mess to check the animals, the walls, the doors. Everything was shaken if not battered, but still standing.

That night, I learned that survival doesn’t always mean you get to walk away untouched.

I’m twenty-five.

As soon as I punch out and push through the exit door, the gray sky opens, unleashing a torrent. Rain pools in puddles on the sidewalk. The sky snaps in half with a bright flash. I groan and stop at the door. I check my phone and sigh. The forecast promises at least 30 more minutes of this. I glance at the umbrella in the corner of my office. Then back at the downpour outside.

29 minutes. 28. 27.

I laugh. Life has waited on one too many storms. I grab the umbrella, push the door open, and head toward my car. Through squinted eyes, all I see is gray. My black wedges soak through, tiny waves lapping at my toes with every step.

I make it to my car. Drenched and dripping, I turn on the wipers and begin the slow drive home. The rain doesn’t let up the whole way home.

Neither do I.

I’m thirty-two.

It’s a Saturday. My two-year-old bounces up and down at my feet, his chubby hands gripping my knees. I’d planned for us to spend the day outside until I checked the forecast.

“Sorry, Baby,” I say. “It’s going to rain.”

A low rumble rolls across the sky as if to echo my point. My ever-curious, ever-talkative little boy runs to the back door and presses his face against the glass.

“Mama, a storm coming! Come on, Mama. Let’s check it out.”

I laugh and join him at the door. Rain is already pooling across the yard; the grass disappears beneath growing puddles.

“Go get your rain boots,” I say.

He gasps. His eyes widen, lighting his whole face up as he scurries to get them. By the time I catch up, his body is practically vibrating with excitement. I help him into his light-up boots and dinosaur rain coat. The moment I turn the handle, he throws the door open and races into the rain.

By the time I reach him, he is already soaked, his boots disappearing into the mud.

He turns, cheeks flushed a bright pink, and he grins.

“Hand?” He asks.

I slip my fingers into his. His curl around mine.

“Splash!” he shouts, pulling me into the nearest puddle.

Water sprays up my pant legs. I laugh.

We jump again. And again.

Rain soaks through my clothes. Thunder still rolls somewhere overhead. We splash until we’re dripping. Until our hair is plastered against our heads. Until we’re covered in mud.

Until I can’t remember why I was ever afraid of being caught in the rain.

Some storms are meant to be survived.

Others are meant to be splashed in.