10+ years
Having lived in my house more than a decade now, I have instincts for its physics. Sounds, weight, spaces, shaking, echoes, lights. Case in point, I effortlessly read the play of headlights across the front of the house, facing the street and highway on-ramp beyond.
Tonight—mid-book—the lights played the wrong way on the window frames and ceiling. They told me the thoughtlessly loud undergrads leaving the house party up the street forgot it’s a one-way street that ends in a not-sympathetic large intersection. I watch for the corrective sweep of red lights back the other way, telling me they reversed course. Lastly—on most weekends— there’s the tell-tale primary strobe of the cop’s lights, having lain in wait just up the block. The red-blue fireworks in the leaded glass lasts awhile, accompanied by garbled bullhorn instructions, contrite replies and sound of doors shutting and nervous feet. Then someone quietly crying as they walk past the gateway in my walled yard.
All I had to do was put down my book, snuggle under my blanket and watch the play of lights to tell that well-worn narrative. It’s a weekend short story.
