Low rumbles called us out of bed at night. We met her quietly in the dining room where she gathered us both into her lap. The storm door open, we sat on the floor, our noses inches from the screen, raindrops dampening our hair. The flash of lightning and crack of thunder sent us into fits of giggles. We were fearful, and so she taught us to look the thunder in the eye. To see it. To count it. To revel in it.
When it storms, it feels like home. It feels like her. Of all the things she taught me to never be afraid of. Now, I sit on my porch when it rains, red wine, thinking of a daughter I might someday hold in my lap on the floor of my dining room. Teaching her to be brave, too.
I’ve burrowed into my fears, made them my own. Wrapped myself in them like a warm blanket. Called them home. Because of her, I’ve never lived a day of my life in fear.
Katie, this is so beautiful!