Thunderstorms have filled my thoughts of late. There’s something about that low rumble resonating in my chest; being woken at midnight by shocks of light in the gloom.
My father tells me I was born in the fiercest storm – on the cusp of autumn, when the sea is still warm with the memory of summer sun. He mentions it often, despite the hurt it brings up. He saw it from hours away, on the horizon and over the water, moments after dusk settled.
And as they set off for the hospital, the clouds started rolling in fast and low; Orange, from reflecting off sodium lamps. The air was still, the streets quiet. No sound to be heard. They were inside and safe when the first flashes appeared.
I arrived at two in the morning, at its worst point. Silent when I came out, and at first they were worried, until the crashing stopped and my lungs opened up.
People tell me that’s strange, that I must be getting it the wrong way around, but I’m not: I’ve always found thunder relaxing. There’s no fear. A familiarity perhaps.
Reminds me of home.