There is this idea that children have a fear of storms. The distant rumble of thunder a warning to run to their parents' bedroom, throw back the covers, and burrow deep into the familiar warmth. 

To me a storm was a comfort. A sound to fill the silence in the moments between consciousness. A reminder that I was not alone.

With my window cracked I could smell a sweetness in the air, like bitter earth, the trees swaying in the wind, each gust keeping time with my breath. And I could hear something, like careful feet on mossy ground. Cold to the touch, but an undeniable warmth, an indescribable nostalgia. 

A memory of someone holding me tight, as a storm raged on outside. Arcs of light stretching to infinity, scarring the sky for a brief moment, to then disappear forever.