Lightening and the thunder.

Okay. You wanted this. So, listen. When I was a little girl, I was always afraid of the lightening and the thunder. It was him, my brother, who would hold my hand then. He'd tell me that if the ceiling fell on us, he'd lay on my top.This way it will hurt less, he'd say. And we would laugh together. He was great with kids, ever since he was one. He'd stand by me, hold my hand and put his arm on my shoulder and hug me like that. And smile. The smile that still appears before my eyes when I hear the clouds thunder, or the lightening. He practically raised me, you know? Because I remember only him being there when I needed to see a little light. Not once, was he not there. It was beautiful. And then, he died. Not long after we reached our 20s. So, I don't smile anymore. I am not afraid of the lightening. I don't wait for someone to hold me when I am seconds away to just, break down. I know, I won't. I haven't felt loved ever since. I don't expect so either. I don't play with the kids anymore. I don't laugh. Or smile. Or live. See how that works? That's life.

(The other side of Arizona Robbins)

-Fa