September 6. It rains this evening, long into the night. The storm is brisk with a steady wind and downpour. I leave the Tudor’s windows open, listening to the tempest’s desirous rumble. Gold-white bolts of lightning zigzag across the heavens, filling the night with an eerie and unsettling hue. I turn in early, cozy within my bed, positioned on the available sheet instead of under the sheet. It’s a typical storm for the Erie/Templeton area: swirling wind, blowing rain, thunder as loud as island drums, and a yellow-gold-silver lightning show of wicked electricity overhead.
I sleep and dream, pulled into another world where I am coupled with the Marine. I believe we live in Kansas, surrounded by sunflower fields and semi-naked cowboys. The dream is a splash of vivid colors and the sounds of
