Counting Lightning

I wrote this a few years ago as a way to record a special memory I have about my grandpa, who passed away in 2001. I thought I would share it. I sure love and miss him. Hopefully he is proud of the woman I am trying to become. 

Counting Lightning

A Personal Memoir

By: Alyssa Marie Miller 

Lightning storms fascinate me. I love them. I didn't used to feel this way, as a little girl I remember I would hide my head under my covers, clutch my bear, Woody, tight to my chest, and just breathe in the humid, warm air that surrounded me in my cocoon of sheets. I was afraid that if I did not shelter myself, if I did not focus on existing, the rumbling thunder would simply overwhelm my existence and I would just melt away. Those nights were long, alone in my room. The air around me felt cold, solid, like I had been submerged in icy water. I burrowed deeper into my blankets, my buffer from the world. The insulation felt good. The stark difference between the warmth of the soft fabric and the cold nipping at my nose and ears reminded me I was still there, I hadn't faded away yet, and I was grateful. Crack. The flashes of  blue-white light, the bursts of energy electrified the air. I felt uneasy, there was too much excitement, too much invisible motion. I didn't dare peek out my blinds for fear that the lightning would see me, would sense my presence, and blast it's way into my soul. I wanted to forget it was there. The thunder, a steady boom, boom, boom. I liked that more than the lightning, it reminded me of a heartbeat. Sometimes I felt like it was a living thing. Like a giant, gentle creature accompanying a static tantrum. It was calming, it was not pure energy, it was rhythm. It was predictable. I knew that even though I could not predict when lightning would strike, I could always count on the thunder coming afterwards. Sometimes quickly, like a subconscious reaction, an instinct, like something that tells us humans "Move, get out of the way. Danger." when we are in a desperate situation. But sometimes, my favorite times, it trailed slowly behind, taking it's time. Like an old coon hound lazily trailing it's master through the woods. Flash...one...two...three...boom. These times I liked, it told me the thunder was calm, it wasn't anxious to announce it's presence. It simply let you know it was there when it felt like it. I remember the rain, the subtle backdrop, the piano melody underlying the boisterous forte percussion of the lightning and thunder. I enjoyed the rain. It was predictable. I liked the sound of it, the whispers on the roof, the secrets it had to tell. I liked to imagine that with every drop, the soft pitter patter would tell me where it had been, what it had seen before the water had evaporated and traveled to my sleepy little country town. It told me tales of faraway places, exotic lands. I liked the language of the rain, it wasn't complex, it wasn't haughty, or superior. It was matter of fact, it just said what it had touched. "Pitter....gentle brown cow...patter...rough, brown skin, red turban...drip...large, green leaves...drop...forgotten blue ribbon." The rain didn't put on airs, it simply spoke to me. It didn't treat me as a child. It never said "You wouldn't understand," or "You will find out when you are older." It just said "Look, come experience what I have seen." I felt it treated me the same as anyone, like a friend, although I was only small. I liked the rain. I didn't like the lightning storms though. My grandpa changed that for me. I remember him coming to visit, I don't remember him perfectly, now that he is gone, but I remember him well enough. I remember the warm, moist smoothness of his cheeks when I would touch them with my little hands, I remember the little lines he had by his eyes that told me he loved to laugh. I remember how he smelled; comforting, familiar. I remember the soft, well-worn fabric of his favorite shirts, I remember his "watermelon tummy." I remember diet Pepsi, my forbidden treat that he would secretly spoil me with when my mother wasn't around. I remember his hair, a gradient of black to gray, gray to white. I remember his firm discipline followed by his increased demonstrations of love. But most of all, I remember counting lightning. When my grandpa came to visit, one of the biggest lightning storms I can ever remember struck. I saw the first flashes and scurried upstairs to my room. As I huddled under my sheets, listening, my ears sensitive to every sound, I heard something unexpected. Squeak. Foomf. Foomf. Foomf. The screen door below my room opened and closed, and I heard the familiar muffled footsteps of  my grandfather's well worn shoes. "That door leads outside, to the porch." I thought to myself. I wondered why he would be going outside during such an unsettling time. I couldn't wrap my little mind around it. Creak. The sound of a wooden rocking chair groaning under the weight of his solid frame. Ever curious, I crept down the stairs on my tip-toes, not wanting to disturb him. I peeked out the front door, and lo and behold, there was my grandpa, sitting in the rocking chair watching the skies, waiting for something. I must have made a noise, the door must have creaked while I was leaning on it intently, because he turned to me and said "Let's count lightning." I didn't know what to say. Why in the world would I want to count what terrified me? He said that he loved to do it, to see if he could beat last times record, and that it was a sort of game for him. Being young, I loved games. I agreed to play, and settled into his big, warm lap. Flash....boom. "There's one," he said, "and it's close, less than a quarter of a mile away." I was astonished. How did he know that? How did he know how to measure the unpredictable flashes? He explained to me, in simple terms like the rain used, that after you see lightning you start counting seconds. When you hear the thunder you stop, and divide those seconds by five. I couldn't believe it! Lightning was just a game, a big puzzle, just ordinary. Suddenly, I wasn't afraid. I sat on his lap for hours, I counted, he did the division. Flash...one...two...three...Boom. "That one is a little over a half a mile away from here." I learned to enjoy the flashing lights, the show that Mother Nature put on for us. I was not scared anymore, but it took my grandfather's death not more than a few months later to really make me love lightning storms. For me, counting lightning is a connection to my beloved grandpa, a special memory that only I have with him. It is mine, and it is his, and I can't help but think that every time a front rolls in, and the electricity slices the sky, he is there. I still count lightning, only now I bundle up in my coziest blanket instead of his strong, gentle arms. But I sense him, I feel his love, I know he is still with me in some form or another. And that comforts me. I sit on my porch and count the lightning, and know he is there. Flash...one...two...three...boom.