Grandmother said the hurricane would arrive by nightfall, and the sky agreed. It had turned the color of a bruise, purple-green and swollen, pressing down on our small coastal town like a heavy hand. The palm trees along the boulevard bent and whispered secrets to each other, their fronds trembling with nervous energy.
We had been preparing for days, transforming our home into a fortress. Plywood shields covered every window, turning afternoon into midnight inside. Dad moved through the darkness like a general commanding troops, directing us to fill bathtubs, gather flashlights, and secure loose objects that might become missiles in the wind.
By evening, the storm announced its arrival with a howl that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Rain didn't fall; it attacked horizontally, each drop a tiny soldier in an army of millions. The wind was a living thing, prowling around our boarded house, searching for weaknesses, testing every barrier with angry fingers.
We huddled in the interior hallway, the heart of the house, as the storm raged outside. Grandmother told stories to drown out the chaos, her voice a lifeline in the darkness. She spoke of hurricanes she had survived, each one a dragon she had faced and outlasted.
When morning finally came, we emerged to find our world transformed. The storm had passed, leaving behind a landscape that looked like the aftermath of a giant's tantrum. But our house stood, battered but unbroken, just like Grandmother herself.