the question is, can you be broken (again)?
what horseshit. tired and livid. the sand beneath the foundation, jack hammer through what you though was forever and only and inch between you and the flood. all floods. how about that jack. it came all apart and you were at your father’s throat under the impression that he wasn’t doing enough and that ever sore tender spot that he never really understood you or appreciated you or saw your gift. irony: a mother who thought you were capable of anything but wouldn’t let you ever really try and find out and a father who simply couldn’t quite accept that everything that mattered to you, mattered at all.
and perhaps it was that seething-ness that ruptured everything else when the power was out and the basement was flooded and the garbage piled up on your curb like useless sandbags after the damage had already been done.