The Storm

I am on the edge of a tropical island. I am unsure of how I got here and have no memories from any previous moment. All I am certain of is that I have to get to the other side of this island. The island is flat and composed of white sand and thick, broad leaved trees that grow close to the land. Still the trees are broken down. As I run to the other side of the island I realize that this place has been pummeled by a hurricane and I am in the aftermath. Debris from buildings and trees are buried in the sand and grasses. Still I have to get to the other side of this island. It's strange as all of the destruction registers in my mind, as I run, the island itself strikes me as beautiful. Even in this deteriorated state and it is solely because of the weather. The storm has broken and a deep blue sky is over head, and sharp strong sunlight contrasts the wake of the deep, dark, gray/black of the passing towering storm front. Every broken item I see seems clean and new on this rain washed island, some how destroyed and redeemed by the hurricanes destructive salvation. All I near the other side of the island, the dense rubbery plant growth yields to a wide white sand beach. I see a small child wandering on the sand and instinctively know that this is my son.