floods

08/31/2017 — 1 Comment

In October, 1955, we had a terrible flood in my home town that left three feet of water in our basement. I was eight. I still remember standing on the basement stairs watching stuff float by — years of photos and memorabilia on the loose, the past drowning.

Much was saved, though, and I have savored the family photos we still have all the more ever since.

Next summer after the flood, my much older brother, on a visit home, hauled boxes other debris out into the back yard for an inventory and great unburdening event. With a twenty-something’s lack of appreciation for a fifty-something’s sense of value, he became impatient after a while and tossed things that our mother would have rather kept a while longer, maybe cleaned up, perhaps restored. I don’t know she ever fully recovered from the losses. I quickly got over the few toys that I lost. My brother never spoke of the event again.

Floods come. If we are lucky enough to suffer only small losses, we can move on more easily sometimes. And other times, not.

One response to floods

  1. 

    I can totally relate

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