Grim

by D.J. Krimmer

But sometimes, when I let myself think too long, I ache for a version of me that never got to be. I don’t need statues. I don’t need my name etched in gold. But I want someone to read my words one day and pause. Just for a moment. And think, She was here.

Some people flinch at storms, but not me. I’ve always loved them. There’s something romantic about the way the sky unravels and demands attention. Storms don’t pretend to be anything but what they are. They come undone in a furiously loud sight. I admire that frankness. There’s a strange kind of peace in it too—the way the air stills before the crack, the hush that makes even the ghosts pause. Thunder reminds me that the world’s still turning. That a force that has seen generations come and go still thrashes and breathes and sings.