He used to be the weather.
Not just in the house—he was the house,
and the thunder inside it.
A man made of sharp corners and heavy steps,
always arriving before his voice did,
shaking the walls,
scattering the light.
We learned to live like shadows,
quiet, careful,
memorizing moods like forecasts.
We never knew which way the wind would blow—
only that we’d feel it
when it did.
Now—
the storm’s passed.
Not with a bang,
but a silence so loud
it bends the floorboards.
The voices that once filled the rooms
have gone still.
Not angry.
Just… gone.
He sits in the quiet like it’s foreign.
Like he forgot
how it got so quiet in the first place.
The chair holds him different now—
not like a man,
but like a memory
sagging under its own weight.
The eyes that once sparked lightning
now flicker with confusion
and something almost like regret.
And me?
I sit nearby,
not with anger,
but something softer—
a kind of mourning
for the man he almost was,
and the peace we never knew how to make.
Because even storms
deserve a sky
that forgives them
once they’ve passed.
Until next time,
