Sometimes when it rains, I get scared. It’s not those light, spring drizzles that get to me, those aren’t so bad. It's the flash-boom summer storms with their deep thrum surrounding our family, precipitated by a blinding splash of light, that leave me feeling more alone than ever. I don’t want to be alone - not again - so I crawl closer to Dad and nudge my way into the warmth beneath his arm. I know he’s right here, but I’m scared from nose to tail, and I shake. I’m sorry Dad, will you stay with me?
Some days I worry they’ll stop loving me - like my last family did. That always stuck with me, I never got over it; how easy it was for them to lash out over small things. Then one day they just... let me go, and I was alone. Now – when I wake up forgetting where I am, when I lick Little One until she giggles and pulls away and I have to stare for a bit to recall her name, when we go for a walk and I can’t find our house again – I'm afraid my new family might do the same thing.
Another flash, like when Little One plays with the light switch in the playroom. I hold my breath, but the shakes make it hard and I pant in uncontrollably sharp gasps never filled with enough air. The sound coats the room and echoes in me. I shift alongside Dad, maybe if he woke up he could make this stop, turn the storm off - turn the fear off - tell Little One to stop playing with the light switch. His hand slides down my side, soft and slow, but an ocean of fear pulses through me and he's trying to calm the waves one by one. We both know it’s the best he can do, and even though it isn’t much, I’ll love him for it as long as I can.
One day I’ll wake up and won’t know who Dad is. Won’t remember warming Mom’s feet during couch naps. Won’t remember lying beside the rocking chair as they sang Little One back to sleep. Will they love me after I’ve forgotten everything? I don’t want to forget, but I can’t tell them what’s happening, and it’s only getting worse.
The sound of rain on the windows calms and the angry noise grumbles in the distance. My breathing has slowed, the air is enough, and the shakes have stopped. I slide out from under Dad’s arm - he’s quietly snoring now - and curl up at the end of the bed between his and Mom’s feet. In the storm’s wake I’ve found peace, and I wonder if that’s how this all goes. Peace in the forgetfulness left behind by a storm that blew away my memories. I close my eyes, ready for tomorrow, and swiftly fall asleep.