My first memory of the storm occurred when I was 7.
A whirlwind of blinded fury,
It picked up kitchen utensils and threw them around in it’s
Natural force of anger.
And a frying pan connected
With the back of my 6 year old sister’s head.
We were only trying to do dishes, but
The storm formed as little hands
Made little mistakes
And little brains
Made little errors in our thought processes,
And it cared not that we were learning-
Only that we were failing.
I was told, however
That this storm began long before this memory-
The storm threatened to take me away from my home repeatedly.
And the storm raged when I was in the warm cocoon of utero.
I was born
Afraid of the cyclone.
My storm’s never broken me-
Never been taken seriously, never
Been thought of as a threat.
“Thunder and lightning don’t mean a storm’s comin’, hun.”
But you’ve never stared a hurricane in the eye-
You’ve not seen the fury surround you while she looks e