The Language of Storms
February 2019
When I was young, my father taught me how to tame thunderstorms.
He’d take me for a ride with his open-top jeep, the storm raging above us. I was easily startled as a child, and every thunderclap made me jump from my seat. My father laughed each time, told me there’s nothing to worry about. He’d make sure none of the lightning will hit us.
His favourite spot was the hill at the far end of the valley. He’d park the car close to the top and asked me to help carry his equipments: a small radio with a long, long antenna. Inside of it I could barely see a small blue crystal, pulsing with light.
He’d set them up at the very top of the hill, where it almost felt like we could touch the sky. Above, the storm raged and raged, its lightning slashing, its clouds rumbling, a whirlwind of air and water.
We were soaking wet and I was still terrified of everything, but my father had a mad spark in his eyes. The same spark he had before trying out a new recipe in the kitchen, the same spark he had when he was with my mother and they thought they were alone. He hooked up his headphones to the radio and put it over his ears. Then he hooked up another, a smaller set of headphones, and gave that one to me.
I wore it, reluctantly, and all of a sudden the rain quieted down in my ears. The strike of thunder was now a tap on the table instead of a gunshot. He grinned at my reaction, then fiddled with the knobs and buttons of his equipments. He extended the antenna and aimed it up, up, up.
For a second there was nothing. And then, quietly, I heard a murmur. A purr. I huddled behind my father and closed my eyes. The rain still pelted me from every direction, but my ears were clearer. I listened.
They were words. No words I understood at the time, but words. The words rose and fell with the rumbling of the storm. A song made of clouds and wind and thunderclaps.
I opened my eyes. My father was grinning. He offered me a place next to the instruments and I took it.
When I feel like the words are running away from me, I let myself write quick sentences in my notebook with no expectation of it becoming more. "My father always wake up in the middle of the night screaming", "The sky was dull gray, the colour of old, washed out newspaper", "The cat curls up into a ball. I know cats don't really smile, but the way her mouth curls up, I just want to believe that she's having a good dream."
That day, "My father taught me how to tame thunderstorms" is the one that managed to grow into a proper story. Or at least, a snapshot of one. I was happy enough with it.
- 2019