Thunders, lightnings, songs

The storm was coming.
He liked them, although he was just a little baby.
He liked them because when the rain was pouring hard and the wind seemed to go all mad, his father would pick him up from the floor and sit him on his lap, on the rocking chair by the window. Then, they watched the lightnings and listened to the thunders together, their bodies pressed against each other's. Sometimes the man would sing for him, his little son, in a rather quiet voice. Old lullabies in ancient languages that linked them too, that made them one along with their ancestors and the ground under their feet.

Those intimate moments may have been what gave him the strength and power he usually showed  in front of the others. That façade of calm and peace he was so proud of.
Maybe those storms turned his head and heart into the uncontrollable and wild sea of feelings he, most of the time, felt he was sinking into.

He liked this crazy weather but he would cry sometimes so that his father wouldn't take him for a tiny adult and think he didn't need his strong arms and his songs anymore. He would never get scared. Not then, at least.
However, one day his father was not there to hold his hand anymore. Without even realising, he had, all of a sudden, become a grown up. He was standing on his own.
And he sometimes sings the same old rhythms for those who cannot sleep at night. And he wishes it was not him, but his father who sang. And he wishes it was not for me, but for himself the comforting words are being spelled.