Hurricane Season

The wind cried “Mary.” It cried “Joseph” and wailed “Samuel” and “Sloan.” It whimpered about a King and bemoaned the one true lost love that was a pirate, or maybe a privateer, the wind couldn’t remember and probably never knew the difference, but the wind had loved him, more than anyone.

The land rolled its metaphoric eyes, and thought the wind might be a bit of a drama queen, especially when the wind had been hanging out in the Islands. It was always this way, with the wind, this time of year. A spinning cyclone of howling regrets and a flood of memories and she’d be gone again, leaving the locals to clean up the mess.

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