Naming The Thunder
Sometimes there is a storm inside me.
It is dark and loud. It comes when somebody says no. It comes when the puzzle piece won't go in. It comes when my brother takes the red car when I had the red car first.
The storm starts as a small grey cloud, behind my belly button.
Then it grows. Then it rumbles.
Then I am the storm.
I shout. Sometimes I stamp. Sometimes I throw the puzzle piece on the floor and the puzzle piece looks back at me and says nothing.
Mama does not say, "There is no storm." Mama says, "Yes. There is a storm."
She sits with me.
The storm makes my hands shake. Mama puts a big warm hand over my hand.
The storm makes my chest tight. Mama breathes slowly. In. Out.
The storm goes from a big storm to a small storm to a few drops of rain to nothing at all.
The storm always passes. Mama says so. And it always does.
Then the puzzle piece goes in, after all.