it’s stopped raining here in texas. and as another storm eeks her way towards millions of souls, we begin to feel the tightness in our chests, the anxiety of feeling helpless and draining and ruined. all of our dreams involve rain.
as the waters receded… was it only a week ago? we saw the destruction our storm had made. Harvey wailed his anger over south texas, wiping clean small towns and cities that dot the third coast; he obviously thought us invaders to his land.
he changed the memory of our childhood, destroying all we knew of that peaceful security of being home. because there was no home anymore: only fragments of what we knew, now being splintered and broken and wheelbarrowed to the driveway. let’s just admit it: Harvey was an asshole.
the urgency that swelled into our bodies barbarically flung us into action, each of us willing to lend a hand where we could, mucking out my mother and father’s bloated house with fierce determination and vigor.
the sweat did not cool us, our souls were on fire.
hearts began to hang heavy as we realized the enormity of our task: everything must cleaned, and moved, and paid for. as millions of others who are still living in the toxic waters of Harvey have realized, 800-year floods happen. and with the world changing all around us, our climate no longer reliable, we have to face the truth that we can’t do this alone.
many thanks go to the various generous hearts who have contributed to our parent’s recovery. with your help thus far, we have been able to purchase basic cleaning necessities like face masks, vinegar, bleach, gloves, trash bags, and packing materials. and in the middle of an aftermath, anything can be hard to find.
completely moving out of a house can be daunting, and we have to move everything out. everything. and my parent’s aren’t even moving. they have been forced from their home by a bastard of a storm.
without the help of others, we wouldn’t have been able to buy humidifiers, replace my parent’s basic necessities like their molding medications or supplements, ruined clothes, or provide lunches and beers to those who came to my parents in their time of need.
the road is long ahead. there is no flood insurance. floors must be replaced, sheetrock hung, walls re-textured and painted, and even mattresses and furniture acquired. this journey is daunting, so we take one day at a time, breathing deep and slow, taking comfort in our communities, and the souls living thousand of miles away that felt compelled to help us.
thank you, with all of our hearts. we can’t do it without your help.