Drip.

Published on January 2017 | Categories: Documents | Downloads: 45 | Comments: 0 | Views: 259
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Drip. Drip. Argh. Drip. That’s the one problem with old houses. I love them- most have a history, or at least a story, and I like that. But they are prone to an almost absurd number of leaky spots. Leaky roofs. Leaky gutters that trickle down over the foyer roof (don’t ask me how that one works, there are two like that). Leaky skylight in the bathroom. On second thought, that one could be easily remedied with a tube of caulk and a spare weekend, but that’s the sort of time I don’t have much of to spare. There are two bowls on my kitchen table. One of them is dark blue plastic, with a flat one-inch brim, and it’s half-full of cornflakes and milk. The cornflakes and milk are completely still, because I’m letting them get soggy while I stare at the other bowl. The other is a standard metal mixing bowl with about three-quarters of an inch of water. Every so often concentric ripples fan out over the surface of the water, making it look like an ephemeral Zen garden sans boulder. Drip. Zen. Drip. Why is there a leak right over my kitchen table? More importantly, why have I not fixed one in such an obnoxious location? Drip. It’s dark out; I check the clock, but it’s still early enough for me to be finishing my cornflakes. I open my front door and stare outside at the depressingly grey landscape. There isn’t a single other person to be seen, which is odd, as my block is usually poplar with joggers and dog-walkers. But today the streets are empty, save for the occasional car that rushes by, windshield wipers beating furiously. They provide the only sound besides the incessant patter of droplet after droplet hitting asphalt and cement and grass. A curtain of clear silver beads has been hung in front of my door by some celestial hand, folded in layers that reach across the street. They split around the other houses and continue. The curtain is fluid, unvarying ripples flowing down its sky-toground length like a purr down the spine of a contented cat. But for all its peacefulness, the force of the rain- I stick my hand out from under the edge of the porch- the force is brutal. I’m pretty sure my hand will bruise tomorrow. A harsh wind whips the rain sideways, and I draw my hand back inside, rubbing it dry on my jeans as I glance up at the tree that overshadows my front yard. The leaves are turned down, their undersides showing pale flags of surrender under the gale-force winds of the deluge. It is a downpour, a cascade of water. I go back inside to put my bowl in the sink, back inside where I’m safe from the frenzy of water that rages in the outside world. Well. Mostly safe, at least. Drip.

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