Tuesday, February 16th, 2021

A truck is blocking the sidewalk on the way to work. I have to cross to the other side. Looking back, I see another truck behind it. Something like a ladder leads from one truck up to the balcony of an apartment, five or six stories above us. Plastic bins that look like trash cans slide down it. A giant claw, rising from the other truck, picks up larger items from the balcony and carries them down to the ground, like a cat carrying kittens by the scruff of the neck. They’re gutting the apartment, tearing out everything, including the kitchen sink. Across the street, someone has finally swept up the mirror that shattered there last week. A block further on, four women sit on benches in a schoolyard. The school should be opening again next week. They may be teachers preparing for the onslaught of kids, or may just be neighbors, gathering there while it’s quiet. We’ve been told to expect rain, but I haven’t seen it yet. It waits until I’m in the supermarket, getting my afternoon snack. The downpour starts and stops abruptly. What I hear as continuing rain as I prepare to run back around to work turns out ro be the sound of cars’ tires rolling through fresh puddles. I walk back inside. I have my hoodie upstairs. As long as it doesn’t rain too hard on the way home, I’m ready.