Thunder Without Lightning

There are times in our lives when we feel helpless to help. On a note of transparency: this is my greatest fear. We experience something: an event, an emotion, a conflict or existential dilemma in the overarching narrative that is our story. We grow confused when our minds cannot rationalize life. We may not be able to comprehend what to do, or how to cope with the situation, but when the people we care about are being effected negatively the game changes. I personally am a guardian, protective by nature. It is, therefore, more difficult for me to be forced into a stoic state. Sometimes we must be strong for others. Ultimately, we must realize that we are human and we bleed. We may not be able to fix every situation. Some days may be darker than others. The poems that I write are taken from personal experience. Sometimes I wish that they would read themselves to whomever they are about and in a more eloquent manner say, "Someone thought about you today. Somebody cares." In the end, that is all that matters. Alas, the following words were written amid a recent summer:

"Thunder without lightning"

I'm holding a picture of her. Right before her eyes, but there's a disconnect, some disagreement between her right eye and what's left of her grey matter. It might be because she is having one of those days where the monster she rides around on, is winning. She asked politely the first two times, but the phrase never seemed to resonate enough meaning. So she tossed it to the wind.

And still the monster won't leave her alone.

Incessantly reminding her of this present state of being. Haunting. Catching her eyes every night before bed, winking, and blowing kisses as she grew up and into the coming storm that would mean everything to her. Every now and then, she hears thunder, but there’s no lightning. Feels rain, but no clouds. What began as confusion has matured into questions. Options. Ideas held by impossible strings and swords for fighting invisible things, like the wind. Slowly, she is becoming completely dependent on it.

Dependence: the name of that coat she refused to wear even when the weather begged to differ. Perhaps this word explains why the more I tried to lift her smile, the less receptive she grew, as her tongue adamantly wrestled to convey a message so perfectly she must have been holding onto it for years. It looked like a pearl when she said it.

"Who is that woman?"

Her eyes are reading the picture now, as if it’s some piece of literature she's never seen, but all the pages are blank so she is helpless when using context to figure out what the author was intending to say. She's lost her point of reference, the compass telling her who is sailing the ship. The doctor's diagnosis confirmed the what, but she can't seem to remember why she is here, and all she keeps hearing is that Dementia does that; and the side effects of medications are as normative as she will ever be again.

But what do they know.
The sky can rain without clouds
And thunder without lightning.


On the spectrum of little to nothing, their definition of dependent is useless. The monster still helps her crawl into bed at night. Although her curiosity hadn’t aged a day, her sight had been well seasoned. It doesn't bother me when she seems to recognize my face, but never recalls my name. So she waves, and I smile; then I wave, and she winks and blows a kiss. This is our timeless space called ‘remembering;’ our haven away from a world of pre-determined concepts where life and death rehash their sibling rivalry at the expense of human existence.

This time, I had hoped to get it right. But there's a disconnect, some disagreement between her right eye and what’s left of her grey matter. And for now, all she's asking is, "Who is that Woman?"

And as she lets go of some impossible string she had come to cherish,
I wink, and blow a kiss.
And it rains down her cheeks with no clouds
As she hears thunder without lightning.
Today, the monster, is winning.


~Deus Fortuno