Sometimes she thinks it won’t stop raining. Like someone was preparing a bath and walked away. Someone exhausted, bones and soul aching from carrying so much grief. Maybe they went to lie down for just a moment and didn’t have the strength to get back up. The faucet still on, the plug still in, and the water continues to flow. It spills over the tub and puddles on the bathroom floor. Waves crash into the hallway and water cascades down the staircase. The entire house becomes a sea of sadness.
Maybe someone comes home, worn out and wanting only to wash away the day. They open the door and release a tsunami, the water carrying whole lives out into the street and down into the darkness of the sewer drain. And maybe someone calls the insurance company to try to piece together the ruined lives. But the insurance company wants to haggle over the costs because loss doesn’t mean the same thing to them. They see damage, but not the damaged.
Mold grows in the walls of the house. Black and poisonous. But not all of it is visible. Some of it hides in the dark corners of closets, in the basement, in the attic. The places where secrets are stored and memories haunt.
Someone thinks they need a new house. A clean, dry house where they can start all over. But they can’t afford that. Anyway, they carry the mold inside them. They’ll never be clean and dry.
Sometimes she thinks it won’t stop raining.
Lisa Lerma Weber lives in San Diego, CA. Her work has recently appeared in ang(st), Mookychick, X-R-A-Y, Your Dream Journal, and others. She is an editor for Versification. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber