A ferocious wind followed, and my father spoke as if that great gust had demanded from him some kind of answer.
"Let the winds scream.
"Let the winds reflect and mirror
"The rage that man has felt
"Since first he stood upon this vast and mighty plain.
"Oh yes, let the winds scream
"And express for us
"All our torment and our pain."
I had never heard him recite poetry before.
"Shakespeare?" I asked.
"Shakespeare?" He laughed lightly as he repeated my question. "No, not Shakespeare."
"Something I wrote when I was in college."
"You? You wrote poetry?"
"Some of it even publishable. Never got published. But publishable."
"Could I read 'em?"
"Scattered, literally, to the four winds. They were lost in the tornado. You don't remember that, do you."
It was not a question because I had told him before that I did not. I shook my head one more time no. But it was a lie. I couldn't tell him my very first memory was of waking up and having my room fly all around me.I never told Dad the tornado was my first memory because it seemed wrong that I could remember the storm that killed Mother, but I had no memory of her.