I love thunderstorms. I love the powerful, booming rolls of thunder that seem to vibrate from the sky as a warning. I love the trees, dancing an emotional ballet that makes me wonder if their roots are as firmly planted as I used to think. I love the rain, shooting down like bullets from the cumulonimbus clouds, and I love that I still remember what they are called and how to identify them from fifth grade science class. I love when the rain is pounding the ground so hard it feels as if my entire body has fallen asleep like when I prop my book against my leg for too long, engrossed in the plot, even though I’ve read it four times before. I love when it rains so hard that the entire cross country team squeezes into the 10 man locker room because there was lightning, and that we venture out into the storm holding hands, sprinting towards our parent’s cars faster that we ever have in a race, barely being able to see the yellow parking spot outlines on the asphalt beneath us because the rain is so thick it feels as if we are at the community pool doing cannonballs. I love the moment when the storm is over, and the whole street is calm. No one has yet ventured out to see if they lost a tree branch, whether they left their car windows open, or how wet their outdoor seat cushions are. Other than the gleaming black streets and the water droplets clinging to the windows, it’s hard to believe it was so violent so recently.