A storm and giant waves were forming just after our band of kin
moved house to the exposed peninsula.
It was a good house, old and strong with thick bones.
The windows had even been replaced with new double paned glass.
Out of which I began to watch the sea rise.
Two of my parents were out running errands with my brother, using my car.
I was at home with my father, my other parent.
And as the water began to move up and over the land, we climbed to the third floor.
He was unconcerned with the danger and wanted to stay put.
I closed my window against the surge, but the water poured in through the sill.
At this time, I began to collect our essentials while waiting for the tide to draw out
again. I grabbed shoes and my passport, as my father and I made our
way downstairs. He asked me about saving my sketchbooks, and I said that I
could always make new ones.
Our lives were in danger... this house is just full of things!
The water backed away, and I hurriedly pushed my dad up the street.
For a "flat" peninsula, Miami's streets where much like San Francisco's.
People on the sidelines told us that we weren't going to make it, but I kept going. They were doomed, and they accepted it.
A car pulled up next to us. It was my other parents and brother cheerfully
waving their hands to get into my car. We got in as I could see that the waves were making their way
over and up everything behind us.
FEMA?
Seated in a government office of some sort they asked where we would like to be relocated.
I wanted to go back to California, but they said no. They offered an island off the coast with a small
native population, to which my family took. I asked the officials to send me to Brooklyn, and
they agreed.
At this time I noticed that my father was gone.
I asked my other parents where he was. Everyone shifted around uncomfortably
while looking at each other. He went back to the house, they said.
And the house was gone.
