I come to life gradually.  A hint of movement, a tiny disturbance at first.  Invisible to the keenest eye.  But soon you will see me as I rapidly grow.  I will be too large, too loud, too fierce to ignore.  Here I come.  Brace yourselves.

But first, just a wisp.  Just warmth.  Just a wave or a tree tossing its head.

You will hate me or not give me a second thought.  Which is worse, I wonder, infamy or ignominy?

But for you, I would have no name, no record.  You hate me; yet without you, without the name you give me, without your memories and words, my existence is ephemeral.  That is my lot—my kin and I always cast as the villain or an extra.

But perhaps you look at me a little wrong when you notice me enough to give me a name.

Perhaps I am not an evil, but an opportunity.  During my existence, I break and destroy, but I also refresh, wash, and renew.  I bring you together.  I cast into company strangers and a common cause.  I am an opportunity for unity and charity and building up.  By taking away, I help you appreciate more what you have.  I am a catalyst for exposing the best and the worst of your world, helping you see yourself and others more clearly.

And my kin and I are not always devastating.  But you don’t remember us then.

To expire dramatically or unknown and unnamed, each has its cost.  But think of us sometimes, even when we don’t earn a name, a chapter, or even a footnote in history.  When no one remembers us a month or even a week after we pass.

Remember the good we bring, not just when we’re gone and you realize you need us.  See and seize us as opportunities for good and growth.  See our beauty.  See our blessings.  See our majesty and power and the greater majesty we reflect.  See our silver linings.  And as we pass away, see our rainbows.  See them and remember.

That is enough, I think, after all.

I slow.  My torrent turns into a trickle.  You can’t hear me anymore, just the drips of memory I leave behind.  Now you can’t see me either.  Just the signs of my passage.  I expire as quickly as I came into being.  Now, I am a wisp again, tossing a leaf in the air.  Then gone.

You can call me Storm—if you want.

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Writing “Tormenta”

Perspectives are something I dwell on a lot.  I imagine myself in the shoes of many things, animals and the inanimate and everything in between.  To illustrate, writing the word shoes just now made me wonder what a shoe’s perspective on life would be, perhaps fitting given that I have written from the perspective of feet before.

I don’t know what triggered “Tormenta” at first, but I unexpectedly found myself thinking about what the world would look like from the perspective of a storm—perhaps because of the recent hurricanes in the South this year.  And I began to think what a sad life a storm leads (if it had a life, of course).  Its lifespan is so abrupt, and no one remembers a good storm.  We don’t even think about there being such a thing.  They’re either villains or nothing at all.

What if your existence was so fleeting that all you had that could ever amount to much was your legacy?  And what if your legacy was doomed to be nonexistent or bad?  How would you feel, relying on an antagonistic or indifferent audience to tell your story, to give you a name?  Legacy left to the whims of others?

So I took a force of nature and gave it a philosophical bent.  I made it question meaning and existence and legacy.  I gave it a voice, even though I know that’s silly.

The title came about halfway through.  I was thinking what would capture the story best, without giving the narrator away immediately.  And then I remembered the Spanish word for a storm: tormenta.  A perfect name for this storm, as it works through its inner turmoil.  That’s what this storm is: tormented.  Tormented by its dilemma, its place in the world.  The word torment comes from the Latin word meaning to twist.  And that’s what this storm does, twisting into existence, twisting out of existence, twisting and turning as it grapples with an identity crisis until it finds its purpose and a name, commonplace but perfect.  A name that acknowledges its place with its brethren.  No longer tormenta, simply Storm.