Every time a storm approached our little city, surrounded by green hills, my father, would carefully open the front door and would stare at the rain until it was over. If a thunderlight striked on of the electrical wires stucked to the wooden pillars on the streets, the light will be off four hours. And he would give each one of us a candle to hold on to. The children would run up and down the house climbing the big stairways.
My two eldest sisters would be frightened from the dull light flicking in the dark. The gold and shady colours created by the flames. They would hide under the bed, while me and my brother would scream at each other, trying to scare ourselves. But nothing really worked, and we grow up not afraid of the dark.
My father is scared of nearly everything. And in his silence I think he prays to be brave. I just love him all the same. I've learned to be a warrior. Maybe is because I've left the house too young and I had to embrace the darkness by myself, without my brothers and sisters or the candles that my father used to give to me.
On those summer days. The storm often ceased within less than an hour. And everything went back to normal again. My father would close the door and the radio would be turned on again. I always prefered the house without the radio on. I used to be enchanted by the silence of our own voices on the coridor.