It was a wonderful Friday. Puny threads of white clouds were sewn into the bright sky, and the sun broadly radiated its marigold rays. I took the opportunity to visit a small town in my community to go shopping and enjoy a vanilla-lavender iced coffee at the local coffee shop. Later that evening, I found a pocket of land right outside the town and sat down on a bench, admiring the beauty of the speckled violet flowers against the emerald forest backdrop. Smiling, I even noticed how glints of the sun reflected off of the smooth, crystal river that flowed underneath the town.

Two days later, that same town flooded.

I heard about it from my mom who called me as soon as she found out. She directed me to a Facebook video which streamed the flooding of this town, and once I saw it, my heart hollowed. The cobblestone streets I had walked along gushed with an ocean of mud and water. Apparently, there had been a severe storm just hours before, and the rain flooded the river, which then poured into the town like a dump truck, dispensing debris all over the city. Waterfalls of muck spewed from the broken windows of storefronts, carrying soppy dresses, cracked mugs, and busted furniture with it. The same place where I had bought my coffee was emptied by the tornado of water, as chunks of gravel lay on the beaten-down road and penetrated walls of crumbling buildings. I couldn’t even imagine standing on the sidewalks while the rainwater gathered against the curb, seeping underneath the doors of homes and businesses. Now, everything was ruined. The back of my throat twisted into a knot, restricting my breath. What really struck me, though, was the fact that I had strolled those streets a few days ago.

Suddenly, a feeling of nausea jabbed at my guts; I couldn’t watch the video any longer. Turning off my phone, I glanced out the window of my house and fixed my eyes on this spot in the sky where the sun was veiled by the dark, storm clouds that didn’t want to rain, but also did not budge from the sky.