Flood
Lydia Copeland

My mother's afraid the dog will drown. It's raining and our street is flooding and the dog is standing on top of his doghouse. My mother is pregnant. I can stand beneath her stomach and not even see her face. I watch her from the kitchen window. She's shoeless. She holds her arms out like she's walking a tight rope. The yard and the rain swallow her legs. I feel cold. I want a cookie. Back inside, the dog slips all over the kitchen floor. The hem of my mother's shorts is wet. You should lie down, she tells me. I close my bedroom door. I slide on my stomach under the bed and find a red toy car whose doors flip open and a pair of blue handled safety scissors. One day I will take the scissors and cut all of my newborn brother's hair.