I liked the way our porch hung
at a most perfect angle
to watch the storms come from the north
and how my dad always taught us to run to it,
and not from it.
I liked how where I was from,
the chaos drew people in,
how everyone would come around
just to sit on bare wood
and let the wind slap their faces
and tangle their hair.
I liked the way it felt like the world
would stop in peace for a few moments,
and continue when the line of rain
dancing across the sea
finally made its way to our bodies,
and then my favorite part:
the sound of fresh raindrops colliding with salt water
to the strum of my dad’s guitar,
the sound of his voice singing Dylan’s words:
Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright.
And right when the storm would blow over
we would race into the water
and hang like a school of cordial jellyfish
bobbing up and down without a care in the world,
watching the thunderheads recede
and our goose bumps disintegrate
all at once.
I liked the rarity of it all;
the remarkable way in which we learned
to create accord from discord.
No one ever talked about the calm inside the storm.