I was walking down the street, passing houses, on my way to pick up my son from a friend’s. One step, then another, the houses lined up along the side—and suddenly, a flash in my mind: that house over there, the one with the blue shutters, is nothing but a pile of rubble, a cloud of dust, a whistle of wind.
I jolt upright, breathless, my lungs on fire, and I run. I run toward the debris, bare hands, heart raw. I tear, I lift, I gasp for air, screaming to hear the moans. What if I find one of his clothes? His arm? His face?
But no, it’s all in my head.
There he is, standing in front of the house next door, backpack on his shoulder, a smile on his lips, carefree, at peace.
And I’m still trembling—have been for days—because my life is so sweet, just like so many others’ once were.