Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 3

September 3
Katrina,



The rain is falling again outside, this time blown by angry winds and punctuated with biting strikes of lightning and thunder that roars and cracks like a whip against the Earth. Unmistakable electricity fills the air and lightning seems to point toward the wall as if it knows where secrets are kept while thunder voices its rage. The storm began just before dawn, just before the light of day was to come, and shows no signs of weakening as it holds a darkness over the land, nurturing the Earth with water but expressing its anger at how the world has been cared for over time.



The storm sees the arrogance that has butchered the land, expressing its displeasure, its pain, of what has become of the Earth, its sibling. The storm reaches out its hands, sorting through areas of turmoil, its wrath moving about like a drunkard in a saloon turning over tables and chairs and breaking glass.



And, the storm continues; winds crying and wailing at the lack of concern for its sibling, the Earth; rain falling in sheets, sobbing uncontrollably over the loss of respect; and the lightning pointing like a judge to the guilty party.



The storm speaks to me, Katrina, in sounds without words, screaming at me of mistakes I’ve made, reminding me of wrongdoings. The wind blows through my soul as if its handless force were trying to strike me, punish me, and the rain takes the appearance of tears that I have caused and tears that I have shed in vain.



Yet, the house is like a parent, breathing quietly with ample strength to understand the storm, as if to pacify the storm like an angry child and remaining unaffected by its rage. But, the walls seem to dim here and there, somehow saddened by that truth of which the storm speaks.



The storm knows, Sister. I’m certain the storm knows, and is very angry with me.



Sisters,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.