It rained. River was high, streets flooded, a playground with swingsets submerged; cars floating down streets. It was like Louisiana, 1927; brown water as far as the eye could see.

They were up on their roof. Sat there for hours. Waiting, waiting for a chopper to save them. Water was rising.

And they talked about old times. How their children had grown up, dogs they’d had, vacations to New Mexico, Colorado, Northern Arkansas. Talked about being in love since high school. Limbs of trees went drifting by.

Then they sat in silence. Watching the waters create a stronger current. They’d lost everything. Old black and whites of when they got married, kids first tricycle, the old Ford pickup truck; she always hated that thing. Never told him. They saw neighbors on rooftops too. But no-one spoke. A whole community of quiet. Just waiting on choppers.

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