The Storm
A little girl’s true story.
When I was a little girl of eight I shared a bedroom and slept with my younger sister who was six. That was when we could tolerate each other for more than a minute. She just passed at the beginning of this year so I feel regret that I did not know her better.
My mom put up pretty, long, billowy curtains on our window which had tiny yellow flowers on them. They were pretty and since the sun came through those windows all day they were bright and cheerful. She also decided to add a store mannequin that was made of straw and sat on an upside-down, tall, skinny, bushel basket. Where she got it I don’t know.
It was holding an artist palette and a brush in the air posed to start painting. She was very colorful with reds, greens, yellows, oranges, in patchwork all over. Mom set it in the corner of the room next to the pretty curtains.
One night while sleeping I woke up to a raging storm outside. Rain was pelting the windows, the curtains were blowing, and something white was bent over and hovering over me. I pulled up the covers and tried to go back to sleep.
I didn’t sleep. I started scooting over closer and closer to my sister until she resisted with “Move Over!” Of course, I couldn’t because of the thing. I dipped under the covers again.
