And nothing happened

I step out my front door and in the distance, I hear a freight truck and some cars. There is no thunder of tanks or rolling explosions.

I look around my cul-de-sac, the fences are straight and painted.

My neighbour has de-thatched his lawn. There are gardens quietly resting in backyards, fruit trees are dropping their canopy of leaves and are preparing to sleep, everything has been harvested, some people have put up preserves, and all their houses are standing, just the way they were built.

Two homes down an older couple have their garage door up and are sitting in front on lawn chairs.

They are not frightened or running away from something burning or breathing the gas from spent artillery.

A neighbour, who has not just emerged from a bomb shelter, who doesn’t even have a bomb shelter in his home, is smiling and walking across the street towards them.

Now he’s telling them a story about his vacation to Granada and the charmed Moorish palace called Alhambra, where nothing happened, and he saw no one torn apart or lying under rubble.

The elderly couple respond with their own story about how their grandchildren came and visited for Thanksgiving, “We were so happy to see them,” says Gramma, “oh, but the youngest, a vibrant sprout of five, had fallen from a swing and couldn’t havebeen happier about the pink cast on her wrist.”

Farther up the lane a woman wearing a western gabardine coat is getting ready to walk her two dogs, a labradoodle and collie, they aren’t whining or cowering, but are excited and they tug at their leashes.

I’ve seen her before, she will walk seven blocks up Fourth Avenue, then down to First, where there’s a store called Share-Care that sells dog treats, and other sundries for pets.

All along her route, cars will pass, people will pass by, some will wave in recognition, and not one missile will land, not a single fighter jet will fly above her head, not one panicked scream.