My Mother’s Pipes
It happens to all of us…
An old pipe drips in the other room. You pay no attention to it. It’s like the tick of a clock, the shadows of the day, pacing time in an invisible way.
The water falls in minutes. Alone they don’t seem like much, until hours pass, and you see the bucket, full below, and realize it’s from many storms above that have gotten angry for no apparent reason.
My mother has always faced the rain. Light mist has now grown heavy.
Over the years she avoids the wet, and moves slowly from room to room, her clothes forever damp, the stench so constant, she can’t smell it anymore.
Her soggy movements are paced like one in labor. Unsure she’ll finish, she still goes on with her shovel aimed, facing the mud, towels mopping the floor, replacing shutters, tiles, pipes, and more.
Rain again poured on her progress, as the sun laughs, parting the dark for a moment to give her false hope before clouds scowl and bellow again, throwing more buckets upon her.
How long will the eaves hold?
How long before the roof tired from trying, collapses?
Will this storm subside?
Will the rotten wood dry?
Or will she lose this battle and float downstream on broken pillars with the others who have gone, pooling into that big ravine, her body circling aimlessly, while the water has its way?
