The sun is warm on bare skin. The grass sways. A single leaf lets go. But there’s a storm inside.
It started as a darkening, then the light mist of rain that turned into a drenching, the kind that soaks the ground until it can’t hold anymore.
The water rushes, ripping up flowers, throwing boulders, crashing through everything you had so carefully built to keep yourself standing.
The lightning is blinding. The thunder shakes the rib cage with such force that it takes everything you have to keep from coming undone — to keep from scattering, letting go, letting the flood win.
This is the country with no name.
You struggle to breathe as the flood fills your lungs and leaks down your cheeks.
Look at you. The courage it takes to pause.
It is just a storm.
It is just a storm.
It is just a storm.