Blood Brothers in my Collection

An unfamiliar wind yowls in long gusts, almost constant; almost calamity. It's too warm for mid-December because I can smell dirt and pines and the great lake. Branches and debris crash against windows, and unfamiliar thuds strike and roll around on the roof. The intensity triggers the remembrance of a tornado dream the night before the Kentucky devastation. The power flickers at 4 a.m. yet the suburban Christmas lights dance in the dark as if all is perfectly well.

I cut my thumb rifling through records at the second hand shop. I didn't notice it until blood began to drip onto the edges of the covers. Jeff Beck, Glen Miller and John Denver now blood brothers in my collection. I'm happy with that. I am happy?

Today's wind is stronger than the storm that sank the SS Edmund Fitzgerald. Waves rise higher than 30 feet on Lake Superior and the dog just will not settle. I do not fear the wind; instead, I am haunted by what it produces. K. sleeps soundly in the basement unaware and I keep checking to see if I am really alone. The coffee maker beeps and groans like hospital equipment, reminding me that I am the healer here.

Can I exemplify the truth in me? Are you a guide to peace or pain?

Under only a few wind-swept layers of the surface of the lake do I clearly see that I have chosen pain.

You and your turtles diving and me not understanding how long I can hold my breath.

Maybe if it's not right here, then it isn't real, and that is the truth the mighty invisible wind wants me to know.