Storms are beautiful. My sons are beautiful. My sons are my storms. The aftermath of these storms is what becomes the ugliness. Ugliness in a way that does not take away the beauty, but rather dictates the life of the storm. The life of my sons.
Two storms, intertwining, whirling together, yet separate. One dissipated. One brewing – forever on the verge of breaking.
I predicted Storm Morgan with zero control of the significant disruptions taking place that became his end, and I cannot run for cover from Storm Logan. I have to brave him ~ or succumb.
Trapped willingly because of my great love for these storms; my sons. I have seen these storms. Very vividly. I have watched them be strong. I have watched them weaken. Shifting between the stillness and the rage. And I have realized that I am not the eye. I am not the eye of either storm. I am not the calm in the middle. I, too, am a storm. The Mother storm. Spinning out of control. Losing my grasp on the moments. As hard as I have tried and continue to attempt to divert the harsh elements of my storms, I find myself powerless to their intensities. Suffering and battling my own. The damage has become so deep, connecting the remaining storm and myself, yet hindering the outcome, aiding the aftermath. More ugliness or maintained beauty?
I, too, want to dissipate; and yes, succumb. Yet be the endless eye for the remainder of my surviving storm’s path.
Give me strength.
~mother of Logan & Morgan 12.1.16
Daly Chronicles 
❤
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