The Storm

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storm

She stands. The wind blows picking up her hair and pulling it to all directions. Her dress pushes against the front of her body. Small pieces of paper and metal fly past her cheeks while a single speck of dirt spreads on her forehead. Tiny rocks and pebbles scrape her legs and nose. Her dress struggles on her. It doesn’t know whether to hang on or be set loose by the force beckoning it. Her eyes rest closed. She doesn’t clench her teeth. She doesn’t close her fists. Every flying object bruises her arms but she doesn’t complain. She can feel the strength of the storm. She can also feel the weakness in her body. Others walk by her and feel nothing, see her but ignore her. The sun does not scorch them nor do they feel their own weaknesses. She does know her frailty and does feel the pain and yet she stands resolute.

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