The Storm’s Opera by Mollie Kemp

With the pounding of rain bouncing off the metal roof like tiny dancers in an intricate tap dance, I abandoned my dolls and rushed down the steep staircase. Sliding on the wood flooring, I swerved through doorways and rooms until I reached the entrance to the garage. Pigtails flying I gave a shout behind me, “Dad! It’s happening, come on!” My dad had just returned home an hour ago from work. I could see his jacket hung on the hooks, white shirt unbuttoned a few notches, and his tie draped lazily on a nearby kitchen table chair. The remnants of a hard day at work. Nevertheless, the rain waited for no one, and I was intent to meet it. With one last encouraging yell to my dad, I leapt up to twist the doorknob and was immediately welcomed by a gust of warming wind. It reached and wrapped itself around me, little tendrils of whooshing force inviting me further into the garage. My hurried pace was forgotten and my attention turned toward the rushing melody of the wind and the continuous yet inconsistent drum of the rain. My bare feet scraped against the gray dry concrete, and the smell of clay drifted into my senses and out, a tide fueled by the wind. Feeling brave, I dashed to the edge of the garage, dipping my crudely painted toe into the stream flowing from the pavement of the driveway into the young grass.

Peaking my head out from under the dry canopy of the garage, hot droplets splashed into my eyelashes and onto my face, dribbling around my arms then finally rejoining with the stream. A sizzle of pleasant electricity tangled my already knotty hair and magnetized me farther into the storm. I stuck my hand out and collected a puddle in my palm, a minuscule oasis in the raging oceans of water forming below. However, the rain didn’t like to be handled so it splashed and bounced out of my palm until my oasis was gone. I felt as if I was somehow out of place, like an intruder in a private moment. It was like watching a flower open its petals or a vine grow an

inch longer. Like watching a bird close its eyes and rest, or a leaf fall from a tree. Yet I was persuaded further into the storm by the sweet talking rain until I had totally left the safety of the canopy. Fully exposed in the rain I blinked droplets out of my blue eyes and looked up at the clouds. I had goosebumps, but I wasn’t cold, I was kept warm by the thick trickle of rain and the dense breeze. I wondered why there weren’t more people out enjoying the rain; it was perfectly pleasant. Why had we retreated from the soccer field when it began to rain? Why was recess moved inside when it began to drizzle? I stared up and pondered at the unknown, when suddenly the opening swish of the garage door and a crack from the sky above shook me from my daze. “What are you doing out there? Come back into the garage so you don’t get all wet.” My dad had obviously spoken too late as I was soaked to the bone. Shaking his head with a chuckle he walked to the back of the garage and pulled out two beach chairs, propping them up facing the storm.

Taking a seat, we laid back and enjoyed the opera of the storm.

—Mollie Kemp ’23