The streets behave so much differently in the absence of traffic. They possess their stillness fully. You can cross the road anywhere you like, not just at the corners. I didn’t see anyone else. No joggers. No dogs on leashes, sniffing at the wet ground. The rain left a thin flesh of mud on the sidewalks, and since I didn’t come across even little cat prints or bike tire marks—I knew I was the first creature to emerge into the day. The first surveyor of the storm. The loneliness of it all soothed me.

And there it is, what brought me here, the call that pulled me under: If only I could keep it like this. If only I could sit here and talk to you, deep into all night, despite sand fleas and sunburn, long after the days have run out from beneath all numbers for them.

Prayers, as a treatment, are cheaper. Like pharmacy shopping on the way to a party you’re late for, Rite Aide cards for tangent condolences, they do the job for which they were made; broken arrows of the spirit, loosed from the hole inside our gut, messengers from the seat of the soul.