a stoke of lightning lights up the sky. Mentally, I try to remember what my dad taught me about gauging the distance of a storm. “All right, Remi, watch for the light, then count the seconds until you hear thunder.” “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi…” Thunder booms before I get to six. “Five seconds,” I tell him, sitting on the counter with my chin on my dirty knees, staring out at palm trees threatening to fall over in our yard. I hope they do. I love storms. But even more than watching them, I love playing in the wreckage afterward.
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