Last night the lightning woke me up before the thunder. I know it’s supposed to be the other way around. But that’s what happened. A flash of light bouncing off the walls, I could see with my eyes closed. It snowed in Maine this afternoon, and we had 80 degrees and sunburns here just a few days ago. “New England weather,” we’d grumble, but I no longer can lay claim to that title, have laid it down among the sharp swords of battles lost.
Losing battles I’ve walked away from, crawled away from, pulled my bones by their skin far enough away to feel the flames of the battlefield scorch only second degree burns.
Or perhaps battles won. So often the destruction looks the same.