Leaky Lives

Last December we had a leak in our roof. The pipes of the bathroom let out a slow drip drop through the ceiling above the living room. We watched as the droplets hit the wooden floor and spread and spread. We did not fix the roof or the pipes—we simply turned the water off and chose to use the other bathroom available.

Two months later the kitchen sink began to leak. We watched as those pipes created a repetitive tapping in our basement. We did not fix the sink. We pretended we could not hear the ever-present steady beat after the dishes were washed.

Soon after, the shower in the remaining bathroom began to leak. It dripped soapy water onto the tiles above the kitchen. We avoided the kitchen after showers and pretended to be shocked at the metastasizing black stain which can only mean mold. One day, the tile caved in after bearing too much water overlooked for too many weeks. We never replaced the tile but added a bucket underneath the gaping hole, hoping it could catch all the mistakes we never could.

My family was drowning. So we packed our things and sold the house and made our way to dryland.

Two days ago my mother called. We had ignored the water and never turned it off. Winter wrapped its icy fingers around those leaky pipes until they too could not take the pressure. The constant drip drop-ping remained with no one thereto hear its refrain. Our house groaned, the  pipes burst, and with one last drip it gave way. Ceilings and floors became caverns. The water leaked out our doors and down the stairs. Our wet, sloppy messes were no loner contained by walls but now became a spectacle for our neighbors to see.

My mother ran through what once was our house, attempting to finally turn off the water, to patch up the holes now multiplying. But it was too late. All there was to do was to let tears and flood become one and open the doors wider so everyone could see our leaky lives.

Flash Issue 6