muted

I’m alone in the dark when I see the blinding flash

Did something explode

I glance out through the translucent curtains, half expecting to see a building aflame, but there is no smoke, and no fire.

I crack the window open, listening for any kind of scuffle, sirens, something to clue into the source. When I see another flash. And still another.

The chill we’ve come to expect has given way to something novel. The air is warming, and with the warmth comes moisture, and pressure.

Watch out for Moldy March

Colleagues warn.

And I realize, with another flash, that lightning storms have returned.

I welcome the breeze, sniff the night air, and crane my neck to the street two floors below at the neighbor’s dog, unfazed, unflappable, curling up for the night. Clearly the lightning is old hat, to her.

A car, crawling through the lane, slower than the usual. A window slides down and the driver is asking a question.

To whom? I wonder.

That’s when I notice the woman. She replies to the driver, reassuring him, perhaps. He drives off slowly and she glances at her phone, then up towards my window, then back again to her phone. She seems confused, asking with her eyes

Is this the place?

Our building is on a difficult block to navigate. Something to do with its location on top of old farmland, close to the temple, zoning restrictions leading to creative housing moves. 5 houses, one address. Or two addresses, one house. Google Maps isn’t going to help with this one.

Hello!

I imagine myself calling.

I think you have the wrong address! This is not the place you’re looking for, but can I help you find your way?

But words don’t come. I’m muted, flummoxed by this distance in language again. Unable to help where needed.

So I keep quiet, and hope her phone holds answers.

When I peek out a few minutes later the lightning has built into a frenzy. I know the buckets are coming.

And the lady in need is gone.