That One Time

Years later she would still remember that convergence of numerous coincidences as a magical moment in her life. More than once she returned to the spot, feeling somewhat foolish with expectancy, but it was never the same. Of course it was never the same.

It was just before eleven o'clock in the morning. The morning bustle of the city masses trundling to work had calmed and the lunch commotion had not yet begun. She was twenty-two years old and wrapped in that stupid wool poncho she used to wear with her floppy knit cap on her head, her pajamas and house slippers underneath. It was what she wore back in those days when, after too much partying the night before, she had to stumble in a grumpy, achy fog to the little store up the block for something to settle her stomach.

Her neighbor, whose name she could never remember even back then, had been out walking his stupid, yippy little dog. He was just going back inside when she reached the middle of the street.

A couple of blocks away a loud truck, a box truck like delivery services use, disappeared around the corner.

That's when she stopped, right there in the middle of the street, a strange sensation washing over her. Quiet. Solitude and quiet. It reminded her of before, when she lived with her mother in that little house outside of a small town in Kansas. Quiet was normal back there, back then. Quiet was unremarkable in that memory house. Here, however, in this loud, busy city, quiet was unique. It never happened. Looking around her, she saw no one. There was no traffic in either direction, up and down the street. There were no strangers in view. There were no engine noises or voices or stupid yippy dogs. She was, for almost fifteen seconds, the only person in the entire city.

Then, all at once, four cars poured off of various side streets. Half a dozen people emerged from doors or around corners. Noise came back to reclaim the city. People came back to their crowded home.

Years later, she could remember every empty detail of those ten seconds. She could still see it clearly when she closed her eyes. When she was an old woman she once tried to describe to her daughter what it was like, but it sounded so unremarkable and mundane. Her daughter was unimpressed.

In heaven you can go to that place from time to time. You can stand there, in the middle of that street, again. You can cry for joy in the center of the city day and no one will know. It's not like down here, where that sort of thing never happens.

Except that one time.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.