Here is where the flood is neither here nor there.
Every day is June 8, 2008 and every day the girl hopes for rain.
Perhaps the home she can't quite recollect will one day spring back up, just the same, from some brown puddle.
The girl will giggle with the ivory, their years of burdened wandering in the dark having suddenly pushed them both out into the sunlight again.
But the flood is not so easily defeated a foe; it breaks you slowly, consumes you. When you rot, it's from the inside out.
Home pops out of a puddle but this one is no good. It's collapsing in on itself.
You've forgotten how to navigate in the bright lights. Your ship's wrecking.
Look now, it is June 8, 2008.
It's only a matter of minutes until the water finds the satin gloss, copper perdals, and even the most stealthy strings.
"I never had a shot at survival," isn't the kind of thing you say out loud.
You whisper it in dream rooms and then let the wind carry it away.
The water is always rising.