-- a series of vignettes --
As a person who spends 30% of her waking hours in her car, I've grown used to taking in everything in one quick sidelong glance as I shoot past or round the corner. Sometimes what I see is crystal clear in content as well as intent, but not always...
A puddle in motion, water flowing down the driveway before/behind me as I back out our vanload for the morning run. We leave behind a sink of dishes, a loaded washer, a showering husband, two aquariums, and a toilet I'm convinced has no idea how to stop itself. The deluge of rain has been coming down for fifteen hours straight. But there is school.
Cascades of swirling water rage downhill in ditches, overflowing onto the road, spuming up as we cannonball into it.
"Hey, there's water in here!" shouts my son, previously oblivious to the lack of integrity on the part of the sliding door's waterseal.
We pass a hydrant, opened to relieve pressure, then hit the railroad tracks with the aplomb of a dray horse galloping on cobblestones.
"Lookit that!" exclaims same son, pointing at the new lake lying gray beneath the high-voltage towers that dot this side of the city. Despite the possibility of electrifying danger, there is still school.
We drive alongside the high-swollen river, street awash with water that refuses to drain. A pipe was severed near new construction. Its water adds itself to the mess.
We pull up and are greeted by the principal, water droplets sliding along his black mushroom of an umbrella.
"The basement is flooded from all the rain. A pipe burst beneath the pressure. The electricity is off, and the water fountains don't work."
I gaze at him, still hopeful.
"No water pressure for the toilets. There'll be no school today."