Beauty of a Storm


On a worn and tired swing in the middle of an ancient playground, she sits blissfully. Her hair has been loosened by the wind, almost falling out of the ponytail it was shaped for. The sounds of static fill up around her as the fabric of her dress becomes much heavier. Her shoes begin to dirty themselves, touching the mud beneath her soles. Looking down at her brand new sneakers, she laughs forgivingly, closing her eyes tight and taking in a deep breath.

The other children have already gone. Their mothers and nannies collected their bags and called out to them at the first drop of rain. They could not bear the idea of ruining their hair and dresses. Everyone else had left in a panic, as if a punishment were being placed on them. Not she. Her mother had called hours ago, but she did not come. She couldn’t. The rain beckoned to her. It asked her politely if she would stay.

She sits there, still as stone, her head tilted back as if she were contemplating the movements in the sky. Once in a while she will open her eyes and smile. She does not bother to kick or push, nor does she wish for the chains of the swing to move for her. She is content, wrapped tightly in the blanket of the storm. Within each drop that lands upon her uncharted face, she places her love, and in turn, the rain places in her a happiness that could not possibly be explained.

Her mother watches with only slight understanding and all of the admiration in the world. She says nothing to the little one. What can she say? She watches intently, as any mother would, and creates hopes, slowly beginning to see her as one would see a bolt of lighting: bright, demanding, and unable to be tamed.

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2 Comments

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  1. You are a gifted writer – I enjoy reading your stories! tomas ☼

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