![]() Constantly looking over our shoulders for the coming storm. I knew how dangerous it was to call the wind.īack then, guarding the Westons consumed every second of my family’s lives. One isolated memory-and I’m not even sure if it is a memory, or if it’s some strange hallucination my traumatized brain cooked up.Ī face, watching me through the chaos of the storm.Ī girl. Like all my memories were knocked out of my head when I hit the ground. How could I get sucked in by a category-five tornado-nature’s equivalent of a giant blender-get carried over four miles before the massive funnel spit me back out, and only have a few cuts and bruises to show for it? How was that possible, when my parents’ bodies were found almost unrecognizable? The same inescapable question, plaguing me for the last ten years of my life. ![]() But that’s the worst part about being “The Miracle Child. It’s not that I’m not grateful to be alive. But trust me, there’s nothing “miraculous” about being orphaned at seven years old. ![]() ![]() “Family Survives Tornado”-now, that would’ve been a miracle. ” Like the police finding me unconscious in a pile of rubble was part of some grand universal plan. The reporter from the local newspaper even had the nerve to call it a miracle. At least, that’s what everybody keeps telling me. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |