There is a game Sugar and I play as we lay in bed, the back door propped open to let the air move through the house. Firework or gun shot. I’ve gotten better at distinguishing the two since moving here, to the white side of the street. The firework starts off sharp and ends with a dull, expanding poof like stomping on a mushroom. The gunshot is metallic, sharp and decisive, ending as quickly as it started.
There is fire in the grill at the park across the street. A woman in a black tube dress that seems to choke her chest stands near. A siren wails. Frog or crickets, the can’t tell the difference, creak methodically, a mob of pulsating, chirpy twinkle lights. The bike rolls by the sound of hip hop pours from the blue tooth speaker, a wave of sound. Mosquito sting my feet. Engines rev and cars drive too fast, offending my maternal sensibilities.
There is a virus traveling through the veins of our communities. The pandemic is pulling us apart, shutting us in, but the streets are not quiet tonight.
Crashley Brakes 