Makeup streaked down my face, tears hidden by the pouring rain and hair drenched as I sloshed through the knee deep street’s trying to get…
It is said that no one comes here who isn’t running from something. But I had spent my entire adult life running from here.
A Bump. Just a bump. I kept telling myself. Not a roadblock. I can’t control the rain. The streets purely flooded around me and hard hitting rain drove straight into my eye’s like nails as I walked from the bus station. This was how it was here. Houses built up high just for this reason. The rains came hard and swift bringing along rushes of floods. Most often gone so fast that some never knew they’d existed.
All while freezing cold this January day. Not wearing rain boots after spending sixteen years in mostly rainless Southern California. Coming back to Galveston Island I was being met with what seemed a storm ready to wash the island away into the Gulf just as I decided to return.
It was a sign.
It wasn’t a sign. Shaking my head I immediatly tried to push my creeping negative thoughts back. Sadly trying to convince myself. I wanted to turn and run like I had then. But I now ran from where I’d run to, before.
Just a bump. Not a road block. I can’t control the rain.
I reapeated this mantra again and again just to get me through the three mile walk. My new shoes soaked, my slacks and light sweater hanging on my wet frame. The wind so fierce I gave up on the umbrella when it pulled and tore inside out and long ago ripped from my hands. A cold had wrapped the island and my hand froze around the handle of my suitcase. Almost two weeks ago so similar….this coldness. That coldness had come from within though. This coldness from the weather and the God’s.
God hated me…I was being punished. I believed this even as I didn’t believe in God. I couldn’t shake the negative feeling. I couldn’t imagine positive in my life again at all at this moment. Or had I for the past two weeks.
It’s ok, It’s ok, It’s ok….Oh God I can’t even see! My thoughts screamed louder inside my head than the rain pounding on the outside. Mascara and sharp rain blinding me, I plunge into the the next deep pool. Sloshing crossways through another intersection that cars couldn’t even drive through, water reaching past my knee’s.
I stopped and looked up when I reached the statue that pointed me home. A feminin figure long ingrained into my memory. Her hand held aloft, finger pointing, directing everyone and all lost souls that come to the island. As a child I’d been fascinated by this womanly form, headvine crowned. I’d always felt she’d held her share of secret’s.
People think of men as being leaders, who to follow instruction by, but really we often follow the female in lead. Even in the wild mustang bands of horses, the stallion follows, the lead mare leads, chooses the path.
I had chosen my paths.
Now I stand there, stopped, in the middle of the torrential street, The island is drowning…I am drowning…