My Hurricane Harvey story

It comes close, and often.

Six times in these past two years it’s come close, so close the water licks at my very doorstep as though waiting. Waiting for what, Harry? Don’t think about it.

And six times in these past two years I have strode out into the waters of my street, clothing rod in hand. With my clothing rod, I have poked holes through collected leaves, the odd branch, newspaper wrappers, door handle ads for Chinese restaurants, business cards, fast food straws, and other things as well, I’ve forgotten the rest, all clogging the sewer drain. Stood there, feeling like a god, as if this were the kind of thing gods do I guess, as the waters drained around my feet from front yards. From around automobile tires. From the street.

My street having been saved again and after five days confined to my depression den, a trip to the local Walgreens today appeared as an exotic thing, to me.  I found many others had had the same inclination. The food selection was unenviable.

I stood there at the back of an endless circling line of people, with my $3 wine, a single 20-ounce bottle of Cherry Coca-Cola, and a small bag of Lay’s Potato Chips. The chips were a flavor called Anchovies, Gravy, and Despair, I think. The Oxford comma seemed like overkill.

The lady before me was purchasing cosmetics and an ironing board. The man behind me, magazines about women’s health.

I am glad I went to Walgreens.

Now, one more hour having passed, I am back home, typing these words for everybody. And these as well. This place has working utilities. Internet. Cable. Lay’s Anchovies, Gravy, and Despair. All the many amenities of modern living.

Also, I am safe. My parents are safe. My brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephew are safe, too.

I do not have a Hurricane Harvey story for you and that is a wonderful, wonderful thing, really, if you think about it, because it comes close, and often.