2003

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with the. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of my womb in Jesus.” The sirens are distant but audible above the steady howls of rain, and I pull the blankets of my twin bed more tightly around my shoulders. Mrs. Sullivan taught us first graders that if we ever heard sirens we should say a prayer for the people who might be hurt or in danger. I take another breath and continue. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” The sirens keep going and I wriggle uncomfortably; between their blaring and the rumbling thunder, sleep isn’t going to come easily. 

“Meggy?” 

The silhouette of my mom in my bedroom doorway makes me jump. 

“Yeah?” 

“Come on, ,we’re going to go have a sleepover in the basement.” 

“Why?” 

“So that the storm won’t keep you up and we’ll be below ground.” 

I sleepily stumble out of my bedroom and down to the basement, my stuffed dog, Copper, in tow. My brother Matthew is already slumped on one of the couches, clutching a copy of the Lord of the Rings in one hand and a flashlight in the other. 

“Can I go look at the tornado?” He asks my mom with urgency. I repeat the foreign word, ton-na-do, feeling the syllables roll off my tongue. 

“No, it’s too dangerous to stand by the windows.” 

“What’s a tor-na-do?” 

My mom sits next to me on the couch and drapes a big, itchy quilt over my body. “It’s kind of like really, really strong wind that makes the clouds touch the ground.” She explains. “And sometimes when a tornado might happen, sirens go off to let everyone know to stay inside.” 

The idea of big puffy clouds down on the ground is a new kind of scary, and I strain my ears to hear the sirens above the rain and thunder. They’re not ambulance or fire truck sirens. Something like excitement tightens in my chest as the wind howls through the window panes. 

“Don’t worry about it, go to sleep.” Mom tucks the blanket around me more firmly. I curl onto my side and listen as the wind, the rain, and the thunder grow louder and louder until I want to clamp my hands against my ears, but my hands remained trapped underneath the blanket. I lay awake, listening to whistling, screaming wind. By the time I fall asleep, I can’t even hear the sirens over the deafening roar of the storm outside. 

2008

Grasshoppers hum shrilly, an overture to what’s to come. Summer heat is oppressive, thick and wet in my airway; my breath filters through June, July, and August, wheezy and labored. I sit in the shade on the pavement and a puddle of my own pre-teen boredom, one hand flat on the cool concrete, the other bunched in Dixie’s sun-baked fur. Thunderheads encroach on the horizon, and if I look especially carefully I can watch them bubble up to staggering heights. Within ten minutes, they’ve blocked out the sun, chased the blue out of the sky, blanketed the heavens with green-grey clouds. Curtains open, lights up. 

With a hollow howling, the wind picks up, tumbling through the treetops. Dixie whines, adding her own string harmony to the creaking oaks, swaying back and forth and back and forth. It feels like the sky is a foot above my head. 

My mom sticks her head out of the kitchen window: “Y’all better come in soon, it’s gonna be a doozy!” 

She doesn’t understand that this is the best part. When the air is static, electric, a muted quiet save a distant rumbling, timbrous, thundering percussion. I crane my neck back, watch the grey clouds swirl angrily above as anticipation grows with a drumroll. 

Crack. 

Boom. 

Plop, plop, plop-plop-plop-hisssssss. 

Fat raindrops become sheets, and Dixie and I race inside, dodging lightning flashes and heavy rain. I stand just under the safety of the garage roof, inches away from being drenched in a curtain of noise and wind. The thought is thrilling.

2012 

The dance company makes it through a total of four numbers before the house lights come on. I’m backstage with sixty other high school girls, all leotarded and hairsprayed up, as Principal Moore makes the announcement. 

“Due to inclement weather, we’re going to have to stop the recital until the storm passes. We thank you for your patience.” 

And with that, whatever all-knowing, all-powerful force that orchestrated the goings on of the world decided that Principal Moore was finished; with a harrowing crack and a resounding boom, the lights flickered and promptly failed, casting not only the dance room but the theatre itself into darkness. 

“Holy shit,” Jordan laughed. “Well this is really fucking convenient.” 

“Isn’t this when some kind of backup generator is supposed to kick in?” Victoria chimed in. We’ve all moved to a corner of the dance room and are sitting in a neat circle. 

“The school spent all of our money on new turf, fuck back up generators,” Jordan rolls her eyes. 

“How bad do you think it is?” I ask. I’m curled up in a tight ball, hugging my knees against my chest. My bare arms, bare legs, bare back are all covered in goosebumps. Another deafening crack of thunder responds, and a chorus of shrieks and squeals echoes through the dance room. 

“Meg, Jordan, c’mere!” Miss Amanda calls from the front of the room. Jordan and I exchange apprehensive looks before we head over. Miss Amanda doesn’t look up at us, instead says: “Go look outside and tell me how bad it is.” 

“Seriously?” That’s me. 

“Yes, seriously, you’re more reliable than weather channel.” 

Jordan and I walk slowly outside of the dance room into the hallway. The backdoor, which led to the senior parking lot, whistles as gusts of wind buffet against it. 

“I’ll hold the door, you go check,” Jordan says. I stick my tongue out at her but approach the door in submission. Part of me’s terrified to leave the shelter of inside, but part of me’s exhilarated. 

“Ready. . .go!” 

Jordan pushes the door open and I jog outside to the edge of the parking lot. The wind is fierce, ruffling the wispy fly aways that have managed to escape the dozens of bobby pins in my hair. There’s no rain, but a far off rumbling is growing louder and louder. 

I might not have seen it had I turned on my heel and high tailed it back inside, had I let my own fear get the better of me. But I stand, bare feet rooted in place as the wind threatens to blow me over; mouth open, feeling the air force its way into my throat, filling my lungs at a speed of fifty miles per hour. I keep my eyes fixed at the horizon, at the source of the rumbling. 

And then: a strike of lightning, a sudden flash of brightness, and the source of the rumbling is illuminated; a funnel of clouds, tall and towering and impossibly dark pulled down from the sky to the earth below. Too big. Too close. Coming closer. 

The scream that tears from my mouth is lost in the wind and I bolt back to the school. Jordan jokingly ignores me at first, pantomiming confusion, until she sees the stark fear in my eyes and quickly tears the door open. Wordlessly, I run back to the dance room just in time for far away sirens to start their wailing. I stumble through the doors and Miss Amanda looks up from her phone. 

“How is it out there?” 

I breath in, trying to catch my breath, before thunder booms again. My answer is lost in another chorus of shrieking. 

2014

I’m two weeks into my freshman year of college when a thunderstorm hits New York City. It’s the storm, above everything else I’ve seen in New York, that makes me miss home so much it hurts. 

A bunch of us are in the twentieth floor lounge, a circle of semi-adults giggling and laughing and flirting, trying to out do each other with stories from high school. It’s nighttime when the lightning starts flashing and the rains starts pelting the windows. 

“I hate storms,” Ana grumbles. “They’re so annoying.” 

“I love them,” I respond. 

“Yeah, well, you’re backwards about everything, Meg,” she laughs. “You’re such a weirdo.” 

Everyone laughs and goes back to talking. It’s not meant to be mean -- my weirdness has been a running joke since we all got to Fordham -- but for some reason it makes my chest tighten with the threat of tears. I’m perched on the wide window-sills, and I resolutely fix my eyes on the fuzzy skyline, watching the windows on the nearby buildings wink on and off, watching the silhouette of the buildings against the sky with every flash of lightning. Another swell of laughter rises behind me and for the first time I feel painfully alone. 

2016

At High Meadows Summer Camp, thunderstorms are as routine as Arts and Crafts or Swimming. By the time the kids are finishing lunch, it’s habit to scan the horizon for any sign of cumulonimbus clouds, to strain one’s ears for any sign of thunder. 

I’ve been a counselor since I was seventeen; I was used to the routine. If it rains? We keep playing (usually resulting in ninety incredibly muddy seven-to-aight year olds. It was lightening, however, that sent kids fleeing to the Community Center gym; the lightning that sent counselors trudging wearily, torn between relief at escaping the heat and a desperation to be struck by lightening then and there -- the only thing worse than ninety elementary school students post-lunchtime is ninety elementary school students trapped in a smelly gym. 

On this particular day, we know from that morning that a storm is coming. Between the approaching clouds and the very-certain weather report, none of use counselors are surprised to hear distant thunder only minutes after finishing lunch. The oncoming storm is a hot topic today, and I’ve spent half the morning assuring Addie and Charlotte that, yes, we’re all going to be fine, and, no, Joseph was lying when he said that disobedient campers were tied to the soccer goals to be electrocuted. As soon as the first few raindrops fall, we’re hiking up to the Community Center and guiding half-nervous, half-excited kids to shelter. 

The doors close just as the sky opens up and the previously-dry meadow is drenched with pelting rain. 

“C’mon, guys, stay away from the windows,” I repeat the command a dozen times as campers flock to the little windows that are built into the side doors of the gym. “Jennifer’s going to explain a new game to y’all.” 

Slowly, with plenty of groans and complaints, the kids wander away from the doors and towards the center of gym. I’m about to follow them until I notice a lone figure standing by the furthest door. 

“Hey Arthur,” I greet the camper, “wanna come play a game with everyone?” 

Arthur has his eyes fixed on the near apocalyptic scene outside. He’s tall for eight, quiet but whip-smart like so many of the campers with autism seem to be. If it wasn’t for the heaving of his check and the restlessness of his body, he might seem serene. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask softly. He has yet to meet my eye, and for a moment I think he’s ignoring me, but then he speaks. 

“I don’t want to die.” 

The severity of the question catches me off guard like a punch to the gut.

“Why do you think you’re going to die?” The words trip clumsily off my tongue. 

“The storm.” 

It’s then that I see a shiny layer of tears in his eyes. 

“Oh, Arthur, the storm’s not going to hurt us!” 

He finally turns to me. “You don’t know that!” His voice has gone uncharacteristically shrill. “Nana died in a storm and everyone thought she would be okay too!” 

The raw pain in his eyes is palpable, and when I open my mouth to respond with some kind of grown up advice, nothing comes out. Arthur sinks down onto the floor, skinny arms wrapped around skinny legs. I drop down next to him. 

“You know, when I was a kid I used to be terrified of storms.” 

He doesn’t say anything but glances at me, a gesture I take as interest. 

“When I was really little, there was a tornado that touched down near my house. I didn’t know what it was

“Do  you know how storms happen?” I ask. Arthur shakes his head. I take a deep breath and begin to explain, about air currents and types of clouds, about thunder and lightening and rain and tornadoes. I watch the fear go away, slowly but surely, only to be replaced by curiosity and wonder. By the time I’ve finished, the storm has passed, and a gentle rain has taken its place. Arthur is quiet, but he’s not shaking anymore. 

“Do you think there’ll be another storm tomorrow?” He asks, meeting my eyes for the first time. 

“Maybe,” I shrug. “It’s hard to tell. Why?”

Arthur looks back down, face fixed in thought, before he seems to make a decision. He looks out the window and smiles very slightly. 

“I think I’ll be okay if it storms again tomorrow.” 

I smile and look at the slowly, clearing sky. 

“I think you’ll be okay too.” 

1996

My parents have been out of California for a total of three months when they experience a winter storm. It’s not the cozy, hot-cocoa and fuzzy blankets storm they imagined, the picture-perfect winter they could only imagine in a place where winter was a dip below 70 degrees. It is cold rain turned ice, it is branches frozen and twisted, weighed down with layers of frozen and refrozen rain. It is black ice and car accidents; it is sleet, hard and angry, pelting the earth with fury. 

It is January 4th, and my mom is going into labor. My dad drives at five miles per hour, feeling the tires glide across patches of ice, the brakes useless against the smooth surface. The hospital where I will be born is barely a ten minutes drive away, but my dad holds two soon-to-be three in his hands, wrapped around a steering wheel. 

I am born in one of the worst ice storms Georgia ever experienced. I was born in the eye of destruction, in the center of chaos, in a whirlwind of energy. Maybe that’s why when I hear that first crack of thunder echo across the sky, or watch the sheeting rain pelt the drenched earth, or feel the electricity in the wind as the sky darkens, I feel at home. Maybe that’s why I feel my calmest in the heart of the storm.