I am a storm
My grandmother always used to tell me, “You’re the type of girl who will leave people knowing why they name storms after people.” And sometimes, when I feel the power and courage of the rain, I like to think she’s right.
The rain is my favorite music but only the sky knows how to play it. Whenever the wind is singing and the sky is drumming, I’ll sit down on the black piano bench and watch the storm’s dance from the bay windows. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly courageous, I’ll turn on the bench and rest my fingers on the smooth, ivory keys.
I always start slow, a delicate medley, like the timid beginnings to an oncoming tempest. But, as the storm surges on, so do I, and with the crescendos of the keys that match the voices of the heavens, I know my grandmother is right. I can feel the storm within me- I am as resilient and stubborn as nature herself. I can be loud as a hurricane, tearing apart the seas or I can be soft as the rain in June, encouraging young blooms. The allegro and staccato blur together to the point where the my fingers on the keys and the storm rapping on the windows, are altogether one.
When the storm has ebbed and the music has softened, I find comfort in knowing that my grandmother was right. And even though this storm was over, the clouds would soon grow restless and once again begin a new concerto. My cadenza would soon begin again, like it always has, with a delicate beginning that heightens to a thundering forte, an unwavering assurance that I am a storm.