It is the midnight hour, and my bed
is quiet and warm amidst the torrent that lashes against the sides of the
house; and nonetheless I shudder because I am cold on the inside. When I was
little, I used to think the flash and the growl of thunder rattling the windows
was actually a band of tigers, roaring and fighting to get into my room. I can
remember sitting under my quilt, just as I am now, but with eyes wide with
terror, wondering how to get them to go away, or find someone to save me. I can
remember finally pulling up enough courage to slip past the door and go running
down the dark hallway to escape. I’d come barging into my parent’s room, and
crawl into the empty side where Dad sometimes slept. Of course there were no
tigers in Oklahoma. My mother tried again and again to make me understand this.
But without fail… every summer thunderstorm after dark, I’d find myself waking
up, hearing the growling, and seeing the striped faces at my window in a flash
of lightning.
I’m grown now. My imagination
plagues me still. But I know that tigers cannot get me here. Still the rain
lashing against my windows fills me with a sense of dread that I can’t shake;
an unrelenting fear, that plagues me from my childhood.
