I hear the deep rolling growl of my fathers pick up truck pulling into our driveway

The plumes of smoke filling the air like an ominous grey cloud of warning.


When he opens the door to the vehicle, we can feel a pressure change as if suddenly the sky is falling as if suddenly the world is falling like rain drops around my feet.


Filling my shoes like puddles so every step feels heavier and standing still for too long  sends shivers up my spine. It’s been a while since I’ve seen a thunderstorm


Saw it’s lightening streak the sky like cracks in the walls of my mind, letting the sunlight in or the illusion of such. Gone in the blink of an eye.


I remember the storm in my grandmothers eyes, always brewing and undoing. Like a clock on the mantle ticking away. Lightning flashes in its wake.


I remember sitting by her side watching storms fade to grey. Watching memories float away, carried by the winds of a different season.


The thunder in my fathers voice reminding me that bad things happen to good people. Static electricity dances on my finger tips like the flames of candles on an alter


Church pews filled with mourners, tears streaming down like rain while the piano softly plays. No thunder is calling no lighting is falling, just rain.


But at home there’s still a thunderstorm. The windows are still latched, though the wind is no longer blowing. The skies are pale blue, yet thunder is calling.


I look to the sky, a hundred miles away. The sky turns to grey, maybe today is the day. As the rain starts to fall, I stand in its way. I have not seen a thunderstorm again since that day.

This poem is about: 
My family


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