I am standing outside my house watching flashing lights streak across the sky. The storm, powered by several days of intense humidity, is rushing in, filling in the spaces between my thoughts. I wonder how many women have stood on the edge of a storm, what they thought and what their lives were like. As the wind pushes by me with its noisy silence I am refreshed, rubbed clean of the day. The sticky hot day that lingers still inside my house but outside, outside the edge of freshness can be felt.
I can sense the shining moon above the bank of cloud that covers yet illuminates the sky. Storms bring a permanent twilight, true night is held back as she takes possession of the earth. For a short while we are the dream of the storm, her vision of the world. She will swirl around us, buffet and scour us, until we are born into tomorrow.
The air smells of holidays to me. Of places far away; foreign adventures, nights of warmth and gentle breezes. This smell is pleasing, filling my skin with thoughts of what is next. But it is not the smell of home. No, it is not that.