There was a spawn of tornadoes in Kansas and Oklahoma a few years ago. Reports of a twister on the ground heading to my hometown were broadcast on television and radio. My mother said that the odd thing about that storm was that it was completely silent. No wind. No rain. No hail. The only proof of the existence of a tornado was the siren that wailed for over forty-five minutes. Five people in a mobile home park died in Oklahoma from that massive storm, because the siren was busted.
Being a cripple, a gimp, a limp-a-legger, is like sitting in a silent storm with a busted siren. You wonder when it will strike. You know the storm will never blow away. You know the words will always be there, waiting in disguise.