There’s a reason “thunderstorm” is included on the settings list of the white noise machines that help us sleep: The strain of these past weeks here in Vermont put gently aside, just for a moment, many of us find a cozy comfort in that rooftop pitter-patter or faraway rumble. This week’s featured writer, Clark Clark of Shelburne, rewinds to early-memory days when a raging storm meant there were loving arms wrapped around them.
Stretching to infinity
By Clark Clark, 15, of Shelburne
There is this idea that children have a fear of storms, the distant rumble of thunder a warning to run to their parents’ bedroom, throw back the covers, and burrow deep into the familiar warmth.
To me a storm was a comfort. A sound to fill the silence in the moments between consciousness. A reminder that I was not alone.
With my window cracked, I could smell a sweetness in the air, like bitter earth, the trees swaying in the wind, each gust keeping time with my breath. And I could hear something, like careful feet on mossy ground. Cold to the touch, but an undeniable warmth, an indescribable nostalgia.
A memory of someone holding me tightly as a storm raged on outside. Arcs of light stretching to infinity, scarring the sky for a brief moment, only to disappear forever.
