How long does it take for a city to mourn what it was? Already, our homes smell of moldy dreams. We are giant, bursting, a million stadiums of people. We fill a state with our voice. Yet our firm, reaching walls fall beneath the drumbeat of heaven's tiny raindrops. What is a raindrop beside a person? What is a raindrop beside Texas? Falling quickly, unstopping; within hours, it has flooded the land.
The storm is a bursting giant. A million streets overflow into Houston homes. Water gushes through the windows. Nothing can barricade its force.
Born quickly, stumbling, kindness reaches out its hand like an unexpected leak. People push out makeshift buckets, catching tiny droplets of care. Dry neighbors drive their cars to the edge of the storm, jump in, soaked, offer stranded passerby a ride. 'Come. I have cookies in my car. You are safe now.' Someone rows a boat across the bayou to rescue a father huddling in a dripping car. A pickup truck wades through murky road. A helicopter swoops down on drowning rooftops. An entire fridge is thrown onto the stove by a thin, worried hand. Within hours, it is slipping down to warm a quivering belly. Everyone knows somebody who has a two story home. Everybody knows somebody who could stay there.
The dry homes are wet with tears for the backyard's neighbor. Strangers lay themselves out like sandbags to absorb someone else's pain. It seems hearts can rebuild more people than this hurricane has destroyed.
How long does it take for a city to mourn what it was? It's been three days, and thousands of volunteers are already ripping out strangers' sheetrock. There is no space here for the mold to grow.
We are flooding the land, and we are walking. We are moving forward, together, on wobbly feet.
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