I lay awake in bed, a familiar comfy bed of mine. Yet not comfy enough to put myself to sleep. I am wide awake.
It is dark and chilly. The rain is pouring down hard outside. I can feel the breeze. Cold. The street starts to lose its capacity to contain the water. An overflow is unavoidable. It is a matter of time.
I can sense the mouses, white mouses, just outside my bedroom getting restless. They know the water is coming. Into their home.
Then all hell breaks loose. The rainwater pours into the mouses’ home. They run. Out of their home and into my room. They pass by me. Up my back and down again. There are so many of them. Too many. I can feel each mouse coming up my back and jumping off from my shoulders.
I shudder a bit, naturally. I can feel the tingling sense but somehow I am not panicking. Even when one is stuck somewhere in my upper back and I have to take it off. I understand.
Their house has been flooded. They are the ones who are panicking, not I am. They have the right to be. I understand. So I let them pass. I watch, I sense them pass.
I walk into the kitchen. The sun is already shining brightly. It looks like the hard rain has chased all the clouds away, temporarily. It is a large middle age kitchen. White wall. Burgundy tiling. Wooden doors.
Ah, the large wooden doors. Majestic. There are three of them. One going to the living area, one to the backyard, and another to the garage.
My sister walks in and asks why there are so many doors. Actually, she is asking why there are doors at all. “Take them all off,” she says. We do as we have been told. She is right. The sun now shines into the house. It feels much breezier, much fresher.
The whole family takes a stroll outside. Quite a large close-knitted group walking happily together. I have a sense of where we are going, so I am wondering why we take the long way round.
The sister is there again. I ask her why and she simply says, “Because the children want to.” As if that explains everything. It probably does. Because I ask no more questions. No more. I know it is going to be ok.
A rare desire to share. Until next time, if there is any.
I am still struggling to find the balance though. Perhaps it takes more time to readjust. Re-adjust, because I am adjusting yet once again.