That night the wind howls, and I think I am on a farm experiencing some tempestuous tornado. Mom’s chickens in the chicken coop are restless, and April and Patches, our horses, are stirring about, digging their hoofs into Ralph’s barbed wire fence. I witnessed a couple of gray-haired men with suspenders, overalls, and pitchforks on the street earlier. I wonder if it could be a sign, perhaps, that the world is coming to an end. Has the Wrath of God descended upon us? My brother says, “Hurry Sherry, I’ll help you pack.”
from Sherry Goes Sane: Living A Life With Schizo-Affective Disorder
Arts and Writing by Sherry 