In Los Angeles, my son and I wade hip-high into the ocean. 
I wanted to live long enough to cry. 

Floodwaters are mean enough to make you cry. 
I thought I’d drowned. 

No one in my family has drowned. 
But when I discovered my breath, I cried. 

I was alone (not dead) in a body of water, so I cried. 
No one came to save us; we could’ve died. 

We were black in Shreveport; who cared if we died? 
The floodwater spit us back. 

When the water rose, I was too afraid to look back. 
But I stood still enough to wade—midnight victory. 

They rescued us in the morning; we lived to see victory. 
In Los Angeles, my son and I wade hip-high into the ocean.