Wind blew off my thatched roof

Strong winds stole the roof of my hut, flinging layers of thatch across the pond, into the trees, and on the ground. I swung my stick and shouted but I only grew tired and chapped. Children taunted me because I’m old and because I couldn’t catch this thief. My bed got wet and my blanket froze and when I turned, the fabric broke. Like others, the war left me nothing but dreams, dreaming that we’d all be warm and fed. Did I have a warm hut with a thatched roof, or was I covered only in cold and cruelty?