The hurricane struck that day. At first, just a light drizzle, so little that children came out to splash in the puddles and bask in the gloomy joy that is the rain. Then the winds began to pick up; it was no big deal, they said. The children traded puddles for kites as parents looked on warily. I watched the whole scene unfold in front of me, knowing what would come, but being a mere mortal, was unable to stop it. It always began this way; the joys of nature turning into Earth's cruelest joke. The rain fell harder, the winds blew faster, suddenly children were scared, and the parents knew. They knew, finally, what was going on, how to save themselves and their family, while the children cowered, scared for their lives, wondering how puddles and kites could turn so quickly to flooded houses and windblown trees. After all, they were just children, and I was one of them too. An adolescent, if you will. Slightly more knowledgeable, but still as naive. I saw the storm coming, and relished every second. I cowered with my family in the dark, dank basement, waiting for the eye to come. All I could do was remember. How could I ever forget those forceful winds that blew over everything I knew and loved? How could I forget that rain, so sweet and caressing on my face, that washed away all of the joy that existed in my town? The eye would take that all away, just for a few brief moments, some sense of normality shining through the storm. Then, again, it would all return, kites and puddles turning to deaths and destruction. And I watched, waiting, hating myself for being unable to stop it, hating myself for loving it so much. After all, who doesn't love the rain?