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.

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.