I remember when the darkest clouds were receding from the rain. The rain had launched an assault on the buildings, and it peltered all of the small world underneath it. The hungry clouds had taken over the sky, with black vengeance, wrapping all of us mortals into its fury.

But even as the storm blew through as I was at the high school tutoring away, I had not paid much attention to it until I went outside. By then, the rain had started to retreat, just a little bit. A few stragglers came down as I stepped out, but by the moment my bus set out, the sun was starting to shine through. The rays of light found their way out of the labyrinth and tenderly reflected off of the pools of water that gathered on the sidewalks and roads.

As the bus arrived at the first intersection, I saw through the drips of water, an infinite rainbow in each. On one side of the sky were the dark receding clouds and the other side, the startling evening sun. Spring had arrived by then, and each leaf carried on top of it a thousand liquid gemstones, slowly rolling off one by one. On the roads themselves, the passing cars left wakes in their tracks, each wake of water splashed onto the roads created a rainbow, perfect and magnificence, but temporary as they all were.

This world was painted over in a new light. Here was a road so traveled and old to me, but now I was seeing the most colorful and brilliant diamonds scattering all over the asphalt. The twinkling world greeted me as I rode the bus home, and it left this feeling of awe and inspiration. I’ve always loved the rain—the smell and the sound of raindrops on windows never ceases to soothe me. But it never was so beautiful as it was that day. In a few moments, the rain clouds would disappear and the sun would overtake the sky. The distant battle of darkness vs light would be over until nightfall. The orange glow of it all would slowly fade away as but a memory of my childhood. I cherish it always.

They were lovers. It had sounded so romantic, alone overnight on his sailboat. Anchored for the night, all was cozy in the cabin, replete with a wide bunk of silk sheets.

He was a generous lover, but he wasn't working alone: the subtle rocking and list made for rhythmic sways and lurches that were magical.

That was before the sudden storm.

Sometimes even seasoned sailors are taken by surprise. Sometimes anchor chains snap. Sometimes two people are left hanging on a buoy in choppy waters.

At night.

Now, the rocking and list made for rhythmic sways and lurches that were not magical, but lethal.

It was a small buoy, and each of them held on desperately. Hand-over-hand—his hands over hers, hers over his—panic meant there was neither patience nor room for two of one’s hands to secure attachment.

If there had been just one of them—just her, she realized—she could drape over the top of it and rest.

Rest.

She needed rest. This was too hard, too exhausting. And much too crowded. It was two people trying to save themselves with a one-girl buoy. She felt guilt for an instant in thinking like this. After all, he had been her lover. The one? Who knew?

Any life-saving effective grasp proved elusive, their hands in a hand-stacking game where there could only be one winner. Was he a winner?

Was he the one? she wondered again. Again, who knew?

She would never know, because he lost his grasp after a particularly hostile wave flipped them—buoy and all—landing it back upright, bobbing, but without him.

She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she suspected where his pleading, receding hand might be. She could splash at it, perhaps aimlessly, for purchase, but that would mean holding onto the buoy with just one hand—a tentative struggle at best. And a waste of a whole lifetime's opportunity.

Her conscience made her consider it, but her instinct for survival had her consider it for too long a time to be opportune.

Existential struggles between conscience and instinct take time. Instinct makes snap judgments based on stress and fear of a consortium of conspiring dangers; conscience makes determinations more slowly. Instinct requires adrenaline; conscience requires guilt to buoy the sense of right and wrong.

That was a decade, a husband, and two children ago: after the tragedy, new shores meant new horizons and a new life. She saved herself—for another and for others. Yet, to this day, she often has a private, secret, and darkly sinking feeling, well below the surface where a storm still rages in her.

I used to have a huge storm inside, lightening striking from a deep grey cloud. The most striking part of the storm was the rain. Heavy sheets of water streaked through the sky. Rivers flooded, water levels rose, and people sprinted with newspapers covering their head as the rain soaked into the fine layers, wilting the paper and water dripping from the corners. Everyone thought the rain was the worse: the sopping shoes, constant gloom and puddles. Until the rain stopped amd simply dried out. And you can't have a storm with no rain. But the storm was the fuel. Everyone rejoiced when the storm went away, but what replaced it was exponentially worse. As the rain slowed to a sprinkle and the lightning began to subside, the storm clouds began to fade away, but there was no sunshine to replace it. Just pale grey clouds encompassing the sky. You could see no break or sliver in the sky. The grey sheet seemed to stretch on forever. And the misery that came with it, was a whole new level of anguish. There was nothing. No meaning, no flicker of emotion or light that used to once strike from rolling clouds. All sounds were muffled squeakes compared to the roaring thunder. And the rain, that once gave purpose and hustle, had evaporated away. There is no motive, no hurry, no passion. All drive disappeared with the rain. Now there is just fluid and endless stretch of misery. I am like the storm. Just like the storm, I used to have furvor, passion, and drive, but now my mind is an endless abyss, desperately waiting for a flicker of emotion--a flicker of a storm.

Live bold, never hide,

Don't bow under duress.

When pain rises like a tide

Hold it with a smile, fearless.

When stars appear to fade away

Behind dark clouds of gloom,

Meet the darkness of dismay

With all the light you can subsume.

Who know this breath we inhale

May be the last one we release

Each precious moment is to avail

For love, laughter, and for peace.

A downpour of somber joy is flooding the room.Things from the depths of my mind are surfacing.I'm sinking deeply in words that I toss to the wind,Carried away by tempest thoughts that storm through my memory.

As i stare at your picture on the wall.Your face i so dearly recognize,happy and content.Your frame is in perfect disarray.

Like the way i held you,when i held your frail body when you took your last breath.

Now the hurricane has subsided.The long dark nights have cast a shadow beneath the ground you once walked upon.

I moved on.Rainbows are jumping through my camera lense.Clouds are skipping across the canvas window.

No more torrential downpours running down my cheeks.

When I reflect on the years that we captured in the eye of the storm.Theres a stillness,not a breath between us,only the vastness of memories.

Only seconds into the storm, and the rain has soaked through my heavy brown shirt, my vest, and now streams down my spine. A rivulet traces my thick, neanderthal brow before drip-drip-dripping into my eye. I dash under the thick canopy of a nearby oak, to protect myself from the downpour. The constant roll of drumbeat-rain dampens from a forte, down to mezzo-forte as the oak mutes the sound.

I shake the water out of my hair and wipe my eyes with an ineffective wet sleeve. My phone slips out of my pocket into the dirt. I pick it up and wipe it off. It lights up. The lockscreen reads ‘5 missed calls’. I tuck it deeper into the pocket and roll my neck trying to stretch away the sudden strain. It’s work calling. I do love a storm, but there are storms… and there are storms. I am happier out in this.

Under ancient oak,

I listen close—to ignore,

The first storm of spring.

A fat droplet smacks my head, dripping from the branches above and knocking me out of my stupor. I move inside, to the trunk of the tree, and lean back against its weathered, wrinkled bark, slumping into a squat at the base. Not comfortable but cradled by it.

The light dims; I crane my neck to see the cloud overhead, a warning shade of almost-black. In seconds, the storm doubles in intensity. A raucous thundering applause of rain batters the forest floor, cutting me away from anything but this moment. A smile warms onto my face and grows in mirth until I can’t help but release an awed laugh.

I spend several minutes watching the path meander its way up a steep slope to its summit, where water pools, spills over, and runs down towards me, lapping up leaves, twigs, and other debris along the way. The forest floor is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of rain, falling apart.

The cold man’s stupor,

Dumbstruck by a fat droplet,

shifts to mirth—springs warmth.

The cold has me shivering. My wet clothes cling to my skin in the least flattering way, tucking into every fold until I look like a sopping wild mushroom sprouting from the side of the gnarled oak. I like the sensation. Besides, there is no one here to see.

The applause dies down and the lights go up; The black curtain of cloud parts, revealing the sun. I watch it retreat to the horizon, taking with it the last of the rain. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I stand, take a deep breath, then my head drops, and the breath falls out in a hard sigh.

A ray of light breaches a gap in the forest’s defences, shining a beacon on the outskirts of my canopy. My feet are reluctant to trudge towards the edge, and I hesitate before stepping out into the light. The intense heat chases away my shivers as I bathe in it. It shines through me, revealing the veiled corners of my consciousness, and in doing so, exposes me to the fears that reside there. I eye the black clouds waiting for me on the horizon. I can go back, now. This storm is over.

A bud in sunlight,

Dark storm on the horizon,

Growth—in sun and rain.

His hand moved with lightning speed. She had tried to subtly move to the side, but he had studied the way that she moved. As soon as she tried to jerk herself free, he had managed to pin her down, and land a hard hit across her face.

The marks burned, and left a print— a quick message- reminding her that whatever she would try to do his hand would rain down with power over her~ for what felt like all eternity. She felt a fire burning inside of her.

The images of her ancestors appeared before her like a burst of dark stormy clouds. ‘‘Every storm runs out of rain.’’ Their voices thundered.

She rose to her feet after lying on the ground for a while- feeling all drained. But one thing she had learned now was not to be afraid of rainy days. Now it was time she learned how to dance through the pain even when dark clouds approached in the horizon.

Later that night, after a long hunt. She had prepared a bowl of something nice, and hot. She served it, and stepped to the side…watching..and waiting. Then once the meal had been completely devoured, she smiled, and tsked. ‘Hope you enjoyed that dish. May it be one that you remember even in the next life.’

The only thing he managed to call out with his final breath was her first name:

-Morgana.

#Tempest-tossed.

4.4.2025 Friyay.

Last night I dreamed you were there. I was 18 years old again in dirty work pants. You pulled up in your old red Civic, walked out with that smile of pride on your face. And I thought, “What is there to be proud of, Nan? I’m as lost as can be. Doing work anyone could do.” But your smile remained, even seemed to grow wider.

We walked through the garden centre. The smell of petunias, geraniums, lavender, bleeding heart, all mixing into a sweet aroma. You closed your eyes and took it all in. You were in the moment, while I was somewhere else. Lamenting about the past, or fearing for the future. But you were right there, in it. Appreciating it. Appreciating each breath and the chance to talk about flowers with your grandson.

You said, “Do you know your flowers yet?”

“Not really,” I answered. And you lightly tapped me on my forearms and called me a little turkey, like you always did.

You told me about perennials and annuals and which flowers need more water than others. You told me that I had the best job in the world, and you’d love to work here. It would be your dream job.

“You can have it.” I said, and smiled. You smiled too.

We walked through the greenhouse, touching and smelling the flowers. You telling me stories about them. About how grandpa took you to a dance when you were young, and he placed a petunia above your left ear. A simple gesture, but you kept that flower and framed it, and it still hangs next to a framed picture of Jesus in your bedroom. You kneel down and pray before bed, and look at Jesus, and the flower. And it reminds you of how lucky you are.

In the dream I didn’t say I had to get back to work. I just said, “Keep going, Nan. I want to hear all about it.”

In my dream, a soft rain falls and the raindrops hit off the greenhouse but we’re safe and I have nowhere else to go. You have nowhere else to be. We have all the time in the world.

The rain falls, but then it begins to fall harder. It reaches a point where it drowns you out, Nan. I can’t hear you.

But you just smile. You gently rub my face and a tear falls. I’m reaching the point of a dream where I know it’s a dream.

“I miss you,” I say.

“I miss you, too.” She answers.

Outside the greenhouse, I can see the sun.

You tell me I have to go.

“Remember every storm runs out of rain.” You say.

I open my eyes and I’m lying in bed. You’re gone, and the storm is still relentless.

Alexa warned me this morning.

“Mild rain turning to downpour

and scattered storms,” she observed

in her electronic monotone,

a drone that belied urgency

to an impending emergency:

the raging tempest that now

engulfs me.

An unrelenting volley from the skies

hammers my every step and soaks

through my coat, my clothing layers,

past my underwear, and drenches

me down to the bones and my soul.

Is this the price of ignoring Alexa?

Is she to blame for the hopelessness that

swamps me?

You call this storm “scattered,” Alexa?

This wall of water I’m in is constant,

seemingly never-ending, and evil.

OK, Alexa, how about a deal?

I vow with all my zeal to give you

my full attention if you will make

this storm run out of rain before it

drowns me.

How is it that I can feel all at once too much and not enough?

I am like a cup filled to the brim

but when you try to drink from me,

There is nothing,

nothing at all.

I feel the changing weather of my emotions.

Sometimes, the forecast is unexpected

and showers on me mid afternoon,

and I didn’t bring a raincoat.

Sometimes,

I can dance in the rain,

Until I can’t.

Until I don’t know how,

because it is rain I’ve never seen.

I don’t understand why I let the warmth of other suns

comfort me more than my own.

I wish it wasn’t a warmth I wanted,

That it didn’t feel like new and old

wrapped up in a blanket

to hold me on those lonely nights.

And on those lonely nights,

when the call of anyone's name but my own

stills the emotions rioting for attention,

I cry for a warmth I’ll never have as my own.

Searching for any body to leave my soul’s storm behind.