Thunderstorms

Whenever there is lightning and thunder, Brio turns into a quivering jelly and crawls into bed with me. It's difficult to imagine him as a descendant of intrepid wolves when he's moaning with anxiety, head under the covers. 

As for me, I adore thunderstorms. I remember, as a child, listening to the thunder trapped up in the canyon, booming and echoing like cannon fire. I love the ozone smell that comes with rain, the sight of dry cracked earth soaking up water. I remember playing in the gushing gutters and splashing barefoot through wet grass and counting "one-Mississippi" after each flash of lightning until the thunder clap, to calculate how far away it struck. 

What happened to that kid who dashed outside to play in the rain? I caught myself the other day climbing out of the swimming pool and hurrying to the house as it started to drizzle, thinking "I might get wet." Um... yeah. That made sense.

I stepped outside at 5:00 this morning to find the sidewalk still damp. It must have rained in the night. The day is already warm and muggy, the mosquitoes in full battle cry, and the new "old" me is already planning to retreat indoors to the air conditioning. They are predicting a thunderstorm this evening, though. Maybe instead of hiding inside, curled up with a book as usual, I should wake up my childhood self and go play.