Flood

When I was younger, we lived in a modest house--very condensed, ever so cozy as my mother would refer.

One sullen autumn, I heard a noise emanating from beneath my bed. Being between the ages where I would either hide from monsters or nod solemnly at inadequate plumbing, I sat up curiously.

I stood gently, trying very hard as to not breech the floorboards, and careen to my death. I held my head to floor, feeling my ear on the chilled wooden planks. A hazy, frizzy sound not unlike static electricity or a spray of water.

Water.

I thought of all scenarios: the house caving in from the pressure of a burst pipe, drowning all my family and earthbound possessions within a grave marked by undrinkable water, formulating a pool of morbid air bubbles as suffered our final gasps.

Or--well, nothing else was coming to me. So I stood upright and quietly got back into bed, awaiting the inevitable doom that must befall us.

I said nothing.

I shook a little until the waters wrapped me in their embrace, my body numb and nonresistant.

I was asleep.

But the water did continue to rise, not to the depths I dreamt, but to an almost worst midpoint.

My father spent the morning hacking away wood boards; sparks and clangs overshadowed much of the otherwise sunshine-exhumed day.

No one knew how this pipe, running throughout the house could have gone unnoticed by the entire family. We all had slept through it, hadn't we. If only one of us had noticed so much sooner, we could have attacked the problem faster. But alas, none of us did.

I burned my fingers on the iron that day. With no running water to balm, I sat quietly, unable to sob.

My mother thought I was so brave.