I could feel the storm coming. The energy of it tickled my fingertips. Its pressure warmed my skin even as the swirling winds cooled the air. The remnants of a hurricane slowly churned closer and closer until the clouds blocked the sun and the rain began to fall.
The storm no longer held the punch it had wielded weeks before. It had become sluggish and weak as it drew nearer land. Despite our need for rain, we were all grateful for that. Rain was needed, yes, but not at the expense of a devastating hurricane. And yet, despite its docile approach, I could still feel the storm coming.
Perhaps it was the amount of time since our last storm of any measure that allowed me to be so sensitive to the current ones approach. It had been months and I was desperate for a change, desperate for the cleansing relief of a rain washing over me and my small part of the world. Or perhaps there was something different about this storm and I would have felt it regardless. It no longer was a hurricane but it carried the DNA of one. It held the memory of the power and fury of its youth.
Sometimes that’s all that is needed, a memory, to become again what you once were.
I could feel the storm coming and I wondered, when it arrived, how it would show itself.