Sunshine, glorious sun streams out over the front yard. It’s only 53 degrees but it feels like a slice of Heaven. We curl up in jeans and hoodies on the porch…the wind chimes bang wildly, madly in the sunny wind.
He’s listening to Salsa Vieja…a lively tune about having fun in New York in the summer. I close my eyes in the cold sun and think about the city…those blistering sidewalks in August, the surging life steam rising off the walls, enjoying an early dinner at The Heights on Broadway or observing high energy hustle at the hour of 4am. Workers struggle to load supplies into a 24 hour diner. They disappear through a rectangular hole in the sidewalk. Up and down, running squeaky metal stairs which tilt at a shockingly dangerous 90 degree angle. Up and down, back up and then down again…moving, lifting, swinging, shouting, sweating heavily, so fast, so fast…slamming the heavy metal doors back down into the long settled grooves of the dirty sidewalk. A few sleepy patrons watch the action from behind the windows of the diner. They lean over the white formica table tops and sip strong coffee.
In a split flash of energy, the workers climb in, slam the doors and the big white truck pulls out into traffic at a rabid angle. “Long Island City’ screams off the rear doors of the rig. They’re gone. It’s only 4:45am.
I wonder when I will go back.
I open my eyes. A few neighbors stroll by the house, walking reluctant dogs, waving cautiously…people we don’t really know, but we are all in this together, apparently.
‘The ghosts are coming out’ he states simply. The music has ended and the porch sits in silence. ‘The ghosts?’ I ask. ‘All the people we have never seen’.
The spring wind picks up again and I reach down to tuck the edges of the large blanket in and around my legs. The wind is slamming the chimes against the white porch posts. It’s so fierce; blowing ghosts and the virus all around…
690 Saint Paul 