Except for a creepy, VERY short story (as compared to these ones of the past few weeks), this is my last short short story. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled hope posts next week. Maybe I’ll include the creepy short short as a post script! Enjoy Silver Lining.
The world is filled with expectation, all is fully still and silent. It’s like the moment before you plunged off the high dive for the first time as a child—though everything was racing simple seconds before, there’s a pause, the skipping of a heartbeat.
Next second, a flash of light breaks through the roiling, gluttonous clouds raging in the heavens above, quickly followed by the crack of thunder—but the thunder isn’t over yet—the raging rumble continues for long moments, so close you can feel the shudder in your chest, the ground trembling beneath your feet. You’ve lived in the city, in the suburbs, but these sounds only carry in the mountains of rural Pennsylvania.
It reminds you of the time when you were eight and everyone was hunkered down in the basement because of the tornado warning. That night, the sky had a green tinge. Your heart sped rapidly in your chest because your dad was enamored with storms and stood on the porch outside, watching for possible cyclones in the sky. He’s gone now, but the memories come back in moments like these.
The silvery hiss of rain soon follows, soaking the earth with life-giving power, bringing memories of a happy childhood spent dancing in the drops falling from the sky. You and your brothers would play touch football in similar summer downpours, barefooted so you didn’t have to deal with soggy socks. Each of you got involved in different activities that drew you away from your games—you never realized the last time spent in playful abandon would be the last.
The cadence of thunder and lightning above grows distant, though the sheets of rain continue to pour down, filling the world—you decide it’s time to be a child again—it’s time to relive those memories, if only for a moment. In seconds, you’re drenched to the bone, your shoes soaked through and, for once, the feel of damp socks doesn’t bother you, lost in remembrance as you are.
The rain subsides and you stand, face tilted toward the gray and stormy skies, the corner of your mouth lifted in joy—the smell of new growth and damp dirt floods your nose, fills your lungs. Though the loss still stings your soul, the memories breathe new life into your spirit, carrying you on the winds surrounding you.
Brittany Stonestreet 