If the world was ending

A thunderstorm steamrolled over our neighbourhood. Within a moment’s time, the skies turned grey and the clouds opened up, unleashing pent up wrath. The rain poured, like festered regret, punishing everything within a ten kilometre radius.

While we were in the thick of it, the kids cuddled close, caught in both awe and fear of the turbulence. I secretly wondered if this was the beginning of the end of some sort. I wasn’t sure that clear skies would follow. After all, it’s not guaranteed.

“We’re going to be okay! The storm will be over soon,” I told my kids with a smile. I didn’t believe my own words, but I desperately needed them to.

Isn’t it true sometimes we lie to our closest? Even if the world was ending we’d tell them it’ll be over soon. Even when we’re overcome with grief, innocuously we carry on. We conceal the impulse to confide it all. We guard that impulse carefully to our loved ones, but carelessly to the internet. It’s to strangers we confide in and where we find strange comfort. We pray that our loved ones will never read the words.

I put my arms around my kids, as if I was the reason they were sheltered from the storm, not the walls of our home. They giggled. Maybe we pretend everything’s okay because we want our loved ones to be okay. Or maybe we need them to believe that the world isn’t ending because it’s the only thing that’s saving ours.