When You Sort of Feel Like You’re Drowning
It came after a week of rain.
After she driven home through the rain, watched the rain come across fields.
It’d ponded between rows. It had sheeted and ponded and thrummed the hood of the pick-up like the drumming of everything thrown at her, everything coming down that never stopped, and all the fields along the 4th line, they had flooded.
There were soggy towels on the back step.
Kids had molted out of muddy boots across the mudroom.
There was a a tub of whipping cream half eaten in the bathroom and a long letter from a teacher on the counter and batteries and pliers and wires and tires, strewn innards of a boy-invention, all across the kitchen table.
Something smelled exhumed in the fridge. The petunias hanging off the porch look liked dredged up sewer rats, soggy and beaten. Her heart had this deep sliver of teenagers in it. She felt so behind, she’d forgotten which way was forward.
So she just stood there at the window, watching it still coming down, and The Farmer came up behind her slipped his arms around her rounding, soft middle, them both about the middle of everything.
“See how its running there by the barn?” He said it quiet, a week’s stubble there at her ear. And she leaned into the steadiness of him.
And she could see how the rain ran rivulets down through the field, through the rows, moving earth. She could see how every flood of trouble remakes the landscape of your souls – making you better or bitter.
There, at the south end of the barn, she could see how it started to flood.
She could see how every trouble is like a flood and you can either rise up on it or sink down in it – and if you lean the weight of you — of it all — on the wood of the Cross, you always still rise.
She could feel that standing there at the door in the rain with him –
how the leaning kept lifting her.