I remember the rain that summer I turned eight. It hammered the tin roof of our old house like a thousand drumsticks, turning the yard into a muddy sea. I pressed my face against the screen door, nose squished flat, watching sheets of water slice through the air in silver spears, while thunder grumbled like a giant waking up.
Back then, I was all knees and elbows, bossy with my little brother but secretly scared of storms. “It’s gonna flood everything!” I’d yell, dragging him under the kitchen table with me, our hideaway fortress lined with Mom’s checkered tablecloth. The air smelled of wet earth and her baking bread—yeasty warmth cutting through the chill seeping under the door. Lightning cracked, and I’d squeeze my eyes shut, fists tight from that knot of fear in my gut, palms slick with sweat.
But as the storm peaked, Dad burst in, soaked to his suspenders, grinning like he’d conquered the world. “C’mon, explorers! Adventure awaits!” He scooped us up, and we splashed outside in rubber boots too big for our feet, jumping puddles that reflected the bruised sky. Laughter drowned the thunder, and for a moment, the world felt huge and kind—not precarious at all.
Looking back, that rain washed away more than dirt; it taught me storms pass, leaving rainbows if you dare to dance in them.