Shiftless2
Well-known member
Making America Great Again
I text my mom because I know my dad won’t reply. He probably left his phone on his workbench hours ago and has his hearing aids out already.
Mom says they moved the car, the water was already up to the bumper, but I say they also need to put the seals up over the basement windows, the ones they had made a few years ago when it became clear that the rising water was going to come every year, just like the prayers for it to go back down.
I refresh the weather radar and look at the line of storms. Rain is dumping outside, pooling up in my yard. The red and yellow blobs on the radar usually travel north up 29 to Virginia, and the rain from my home arrives at my parents' two hours later.
I worry, of course, my dad with a cane and their home just a block from the Appomattox.
My gutters are overflowing and the water is dumping onto my new porch boards, the ones Jose cut so precisely and I haven’t yet sealed. Those gutters have need replaced since I bought the house, but the truck has needed new tires and the kid needed running shoes and for fucks sake my friend Rebby just lost her hotel room and is living outside again.
She’s living in a tent pitched between two roads, hidden in a stand of trees that line a creek.
I text Rebby. She assures me she is watching the creek. I wonder how well she can do that in the dark; she needs to sleep at some point. I tell her to make her way to my house if it looks like the water is rising and she says .....
CONTINUED
Gwen Frisbie-Fulton
rsenpooStdalht6at21g7ug9l57lc54iu6igufam022h062395481l1l2hm2 ·I text my mom because I know my dad won’t reply. He probably left his phone on his workbench hours ago and has his hearing aids out already.
Mom says they moved the car, the water was already up to the bumper, but I say they also need to put the seals up over the basement windows, the ones they had made a few years ago when it became clear that the rising water was going to come every year, just like the prayers for it to go back down.
I refresh the weather radar and look at the line of storms. Rain is dumping outside, pooling up in my yard. The red and yellow blobs on the radar usually travel north up 29 to Virginia, and the rain from my home arrives at my parents' two hours later.
I worry, of course, my dad with a cane and their home just a block from the Appomattox.
My gutters are overflowing and the water is dumping onto my new porch boards, the ones Jose cut so precisely and I haven’t yet sealed. Those gutters have need replaced since I bought the house, but the truck has needed new tires and the kid needed running shoes and for fucks sake my friend Rebby just lost her hotel room and is living outside again.
She’s living in a tent pitched between two roads, hidden in a stand of trees that line a creek.
I text Rebby. She assures me she is watching the creek. I wonder how well she can do that in the dark; she needs to sleep at some point. I tell her to make her way to my house if it looks like the water is rising and she says .....
CONTINUED
