GH - 2000-54
I can feel a storm coming. I can feel it in my right elbow. Destroying is easy, but healing requires magic, my Abuela says. If it is true, then the magic in my elbow can foretell rain. But a storm is no rain. It's not magical either. It stomps on the settlements like an angry giant. When its rage is spent, we are left to glue the pieces of our home back together.
I used to enjoy storms as a child. I would wail the storm prayers with everyone in the settlements of course, but I looked forward to the process of rebuilding. It was magical how the settlements would rise again from dust and mud. We ate together, slept together, and all the adults came back from the Citadel to shelter with us.
The Citadel always knew of storms ahead of time. Officers would send the workers back to the settlements. Apparently, their bunkers were only large enough for the ruling class. Every communiqué from the Citadel is a load of crap, but I enjoyed the excuse to see Maman again.