When the floods began, they told us to stay inside. The touch of your hand in the crook of my arm lingered into the third day we stayed huddled in the center of the living room, the four tables we owned pushed together, our blankets spread out over the uneven edges and corners that dug into our backs, reminding us that we couldn’t sleep soundly. And so on that fourth day, I splashed into the water, felt its chill up to my waist, and waded through our house to fetch the things that were left on the high shelves, stuff them into coolers, and strap them to the tables. The shelves became heavy shingles, crafted together with the pounds of a hammer that fell in syncopation with the cracks of thunder outside.
You climbed off the tables as I brought them together, too, robbing them of their legs as we abandoned the need for our own, climbing atop our new hut, created out of the parts of what we used to call home.
I remember opening the door, the swell and currents that formed themselves out of fallen drops rushing inward, and pulling us back with them. And I watched through the tarp as the flood sucked us out onto its surface.
They’d told us to stay in our homes.
And on that first day out in the new world, I felt your hand in the crook of my arm.
We drifted across the world while the world hid safely inside.