1 minute read
Flash Flood
Adriana Medina
Your silence is unrestrained, wild even, in your slow blink, unless I bring up God.
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Who will tell about the ravine rising against you as a baby, the flash flood almost tearing your velvet skin from you?
Your older sister ran to save your new life. You didn’t know you almost died; She had to tell you about it later, like a myth.
Tell me before it’s too late, and you can’t begin every sentence with We used to.
Please tell me the one story, father, the only one I know of your childhood.
Tell me of your old man’s dream, too, how you sad old age was falling asleep a young man and waking up an old one.
