It started with rumours - whispers of "hurricane coming" in the school hallways and conversations over weather at the dinner table. There were fingers crossed behind backs and hopeful grins, because there was one thing we all desired: a storm day.
We were granted our wish, for the next morning, a single glimpse out the window sent everyone straight back under the blankets, like snails into their shells. Wind pushed and pulled at the trees, shook the walls of the house and made the windows moan. Branches littered yards and roads. Electricity abandoned us before the morning coffee was even set to brew.
There are many ways that my Dad and I are alike: our adoration for literature, our witty tongues, our attraction to fruit... and our love for storms. I wasn't scared of the rattling windowpanes or the absence of power; in fact, I immensely enjoyed it. I scribbled in journals, sketched with watercolour pencils and leafed through novels all morning long.
When noon rolled around, we lugged up the camper stove from the basement, pulling forth dusty memories of marshmallows and hot dog buns eaten around the campfire. We ate our lunches during a game of Scrabble and watched the wind die down as the sun peeked out.