A Natural Disaster
Lydia
Davis
In our home here by the
rising sea we will not last much longer. The cold and the damp will certainly
get us in the end, because it is no longer possible to leave: the cold has
cracked open the only road away from here, the sea has risen and filled the
cracks down by the marsh where it is low, has sunk and left salt crystals
lining the cracks, has risen again higher and made the road impassable.
The sea washes up through the pipes into our basins, and our
drinking water is brackish. Mollusks have appeared in our front yard and our
garden and we can’t walk without crushing their shells at every step. At every
high tide the sea covers our land, leaving pools, when it ebbs, among our
rosebushes and in the furrows of our rye field. Our seeds have been washed
away; the crows have eaten what few were left.
Now we have moved into the upper rooms of the house and stand at
the window watching the fish flash through the branches of our peach tree. An
eel looks out from below our wheelbarrow.
What we wash and hang out the upstairs window to dry
freezes: our shirts and pants make strange writhing shapes on the line. What we
wear is always damp now, and the salt rubs against our skin until we are red
and sore. Much of the day, now, we stay in bed under heavy, sour blankets; the
wooden walls are wet through; the sea enters the cracks at the windowsills and
trickles down to the floor. Three of us have died of pneumonia and bronchitis
at different hours of the morning before daybreak. There are three left, and we
are all weak, can’t sleep but lightly, can’t think but with confusion, don’t
speak, and hardly see light and dark anymore, only dimness and shadow.
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