I keep thinking, “God said he wouldn’t flood the earth again.”
And then I chide myself, remembering context, and throw some more clothes in a bag. Pack up the embroidery projects. Grab the copy of Les Mis that The Tall One gave me, the one with the poppies dried inside. The dress I wore to New York. The journal that Molly helped me make in print making, even though I wasn’t actually enrolled in the class. Stare at my plants for ten minutes, trying to decide if I want to risk their lives on the floorboard of my car.
I remember my wild turns and inconsistent speeds when I’m tired at night, and leave them where they are.
“Don’t love anything that can’t love you back.”
Nikki told me that. At Passover dinner, when I broke a piece of crystal. Because I dropped it or something; I can’t remember. But she laughed, and her husband made a joke about “Great-Great-Great Grandmother H. bringing it through the Red Sea.”
Her words have been on my mind through all of this – the rain, the flooding, the evacuations, the packing and preparations.
Don’t love anything that
My rose bush is dying. My ivy is dying. They haven’t been in the sunshine – there hasn’t been any sunshine – in at least four days. There’s black crawling up Phyllis’ branches. Ronald’s turning yellow.
The succulent, though, is fine. Of course. Perched there on the dang window sill. The Curly Haired Wonder said it’s getting fatter.
My cat, Poosh (the beautiful one), is asleep on the bed right now. I had him locked inside most of day-before-yesterday, thinking that if we had to evacuate, I didn’t want him outside. He doesn’t have front claws. I’m not leaving him.
I’m surprised he doesn’t hate me for keeping him indoors so long.
Here’s the deal:
The Brazos is full. It’s all the way up to it’s banks, and it’s overflowing into the creeks. The creeks are overflowing into the pastures and streets. At least, that’s the deal for my town. And it sucks, because the projected worst-case-scenario shows that we’ll stay dry. We won’t get flooded.
But the highway will, and that’s our only way to get anywhere.
It’s looking like we might be okay – like we won’t get water over the highway. Somebody said something about somebody pumping water. The forecasted rain hasn’t drenched us. The creeks aren’t rising as quickly as they were.
I think it’s ironic that it’s the creeks, not the river, threatening us. Well. Me. The river is still doing some harsh damage to some.
And I know I sound grumpy, but, as selfish and ignorant as it sounds, I’m really very thankful that it isn’t worse than it is. That there are so many people helping out those who need it. That our community is one that pulls together and works through the problem. That we have officers who are watching out for our safety.
And now I have to get back to my lab assignment, and the readings for class.