When It Rains

When it rains in the early morning hours, I dream that the pink fiberglass insulation up in the attic is absorbing leaks from the roof.

Between slaps at the snooze button, I imagine climbing up the fold-down ladder in the hall and surveying the scene:

puffy pink mounds,
swollen from floor to ceiling,
wobbling like Jell-o
with the weight of all that water.

At 6:19, I poke Russ in the ribs.

“Wake up. Wake up! Before you shave, will you go check the attic? I think today’s the day.”
“I think you’re crazy,” he mumbles.

That's what happens.
Every time it rains.