Early April, 1977

Early April, 1977 Honey, some said the water come out those mines like oil, that dark and slick. Took us weeks to even get up to that hospital. I called you 'flood baby/ your other granny called you bad luck, sure as she stood and breathed, and waited for you to get sick, counting fingers, pinching toes, feeling down the bones in your back, looking for a mistake. The rain started soon as your momma's water broke. Your aunt liked to've killed all of you tearing down Pine Mountain in your Uncle Billy's old Toyota, garbage bag taped over the window, flapping in rain on the rider's side. She said water was running through the hollers fast as a river, rain beat down, and the wipers wouldn't keep up. She had to come back, bring your brother to me, find your daddy—barely made it. Your momma watched the rain from her hospital window. Ocean. She said it was like seeing the ocean, hoping to glimpse some gravel, some dirt, but seeing only water, all over water, with the tops of trees sticking out. —Christopher D. Mabelitini 41 ...