Mother would tell me to go and hide, and let the storm take it’s ride. But like a kite I would drift in sight, while memorization held me tied.

The thunder would come upon a mighty crack, with the dark clouds covering me whole. The rain would come and bite my back, while the wet would take it’s toll. Fury does fall as the winds would call, throwing me around like a dime in a blender. Upon my chest the rain thus fall, making my skin feel so tender.

The storm then would leave, by the forces of my mother. Slowly the thunder would cease by my mother’s threatening forehead crease, while waving her hands in a flutter. I would fall back, covered in wet. The rain had stopped but still I wept, as my body quivered a shutter.

But though these memories so long ago were of a storm by choice. For now it is time the line to toe, and remember his thundering voice. Remember the rain of pain. Remember the dark clouds of him. To finally remember that the wet there was, was from a flood of blood, caused by the fury of my father’s sin.