Devonne Brown

Hurricane Ian

“Make a wish. Cross your fingers and close your eyes. Blow a kiss onto your fingers and into the fire. Open your fingers as you blow. That’s right. Now your wish will come true,” said the storm . “It’s a Fire wish.”

Ian, the mighty Hurricane was at category five and powerful. A tantrum of the gods. The news bore it out. It raged through its short life. A hurricane is a magnificent, destructive beast on a quick quest. Like Wordsworth says, “The mighty being is awake, and doth with its eternal motion make a sound like thunder, everlastingly.” Yes, Hurricane Ian was mighty.

“I wished for laser vision so I could have more control over my world,” I said.

“O man, now you’ll never get it. You told your wish, besides, super powers are doled out like the lottery, and you’re not that special,” The storm was matter of fact. It made me feel insignificant.

Storms are the gods’ souls blowing off steam. Those souls pile up lots of baggage. As time passes, their souls rake in more and more baggage. The wiser they are, the more baggage they collect. The pressure builds like a boil on somebody’s butt. It was time for Ian to get rid of some pressure. The maelstrom needed to burst, to let its wind and rain roar and tussle. It was gush time.

“A Sanctioned Atmospheric Conniption Fit With Casualties,” said the storm, and just like that, it became a category four hurricane.

There must be more stress in rarified air than mortals can imagine. To be a gathering storm carries heavy responsibility. Understanding that you will one day cause mass destruction does make one ponder. Hurricane Ian wasn’t happy with his cone of uncertainty. 

A storm “frets and struts and then is heard no more,” said Shakespeare.

“At best I clean out unwanted humidity. I asked for oceans and deserted islands. I wanted to peter out over the coast and come up breaching with the whales. I didn’t want to be a storm that destroyed people and their places. I didn’t get my Fire Wish.”