Ditta Sylvester, Contributor

Something banged against the house and startled Sylvie out of her half-sleep. She got up and ran to the window. It was dark outside, but she was able to discern that it was her neighbour's awning, blown down by the wind. The hurricane was here now in full force and so was the rain. Sylvie peered through the opening between the boards, which John had nailed over the glass to protect it. The moon was valiantly trying to shine through the heavily overcast skies. All electric power had been turned off.

A picture of her husband came to her mind as another gust of wind slapped against the house. This storm - stopping and starting, attacking then renewing - was a fighter, though not at all like her Marty. Marty had fought with dignity and died in service to his country. This hurricane was more like a tired, disgruntled, old soldier who just wanted to get this last battle over with - fighting without purpose or conviction. A has-been Casanova, who had scattered his wild seeds of devastation over every territory he ravished. Now, as he fondled the walls of uncertainty, his romantic whistling was baleful. The soldier knew [though he would never admit] that time was taking his potency.

The wind sighed and the candle went out. Sylvie felt scared and alone. She chided herself for not accepting her son's offer for her to stay with his family while the hurricane passed. But this was the house which she and Marty had built with their own hands. She couldn't just leave it to weather this storm alone. She stumbled about in the darkness till she found the bed and sat down. Sylvie listened and she tensed. The old soldier was coming back!

She had been pregnant with her son, John, the first time she had met a hurricane. This house had not even been finished at the time. Marty had borrowed rope and tied the beams and rafters together as the rain soaked through his clothes. He had ignored her as she pleaded with him for them to leave and seek refuge elsewhere. Marty had been as stubborn as this storm.

Now the hurricane was back, mad as hell in this his final bid for glory. The house trembled in the venomous blast and rain came sliding through a newly made crack in the wall. A building block, which had been used to reinforce the roof, tumbled ominously to the ground. There was a frightening racket as a sheet of zinc flapped rebelliously about in an effort to dislodge itself from the rest of the roof. Sylvie was too preoccupied with finding containers to catch the water coming in, to fully feel her fear.

Then the wind snorted, belched and went quiet. Everything was still except for the rustling of the branches and a sad, ghoulish hooting - hurricane background music. An hour later, even that was gone. The old soldier was spent. He had finally conceded, retreating defeated, making way for peace.

When John came calling the morning after, the sun, like his mother, was out and about. Spirits were at their usual high after a storm. Everybody smiled, grateful to have survived alive, as they walked among fallen trees, lampposts and the assortment of debris, left in the wake of the storm. Enemies forgot their grudges and pitched in to help one another rebuild and repair their damaged lives - shining people, giggling sunshine.

Nobody answered John when he asked,

"You all hear say one new hurricane jus' born a sea?"