I pillowed my ears between two couch cushions as the thunder cracked and the lightning flashed through my grandma’s living room. “Would the cows be ok?” I asked her. “Safe in the barn,” she said.

“And the car?”
“In the garage.”

“And grandpa?”
“Smoking his pipe in the basement.”

She patiently had an answer for each one on my list. But surely not the flowers, I thought. They couldn’t possibly be ok. I peaked my head through the front entry door. They were closed and slightly bent as the storm raged around them. “Are they dead?” I asked. “No, just waiting. You’ll see in the morning.”

I slept on the sofa that night. Grandpa snored in the next room. Grandma rolled. I waited under covers.

The first light cracked through the door we never used, giving sound to Grandma in the kitchen. I raced through to the side door. Tiptoed lightly, tickling the wet grass and stood in front of the sun-lit front stairs flanked by flowers. Straight, strong and wide open! I could not only see them, but hear them!

I marked my return to the kitchen with prints of little wet toes. “They’re good, aren’t they?” “Yes!” I agreed.

Oh, the storms I can create in the middle of the night, even still. I go through my lists and cover myself back to sleep. All part of the growth inside. Knowing the storm will end, light will come, and this bloom of voice and thunder, was about to be heard.