Summertime

Lola and I sat in the living room in the middle of the sunny summer afternoon, both doors closed and the blinds drawn.  Men had our house encircled, scrapping, spraying, climbing on ladders, crawling on hands and knees.  Soccer played on an endless loop.  I have never had house painters before and had not anticipated how the event would play out.  Lola was not pleased.  We spent six days locked in, me trying to keep her calm and away from the windows, watching every World Cup game.

I emerged nearly a week later, feel pale and atrophied, shielding my eyes from the sun.  As I jogged through the park, I heard the whistling, the man that whistles so loudly I can hear him while inside my house as he rides his bike down the street.  And, he doesn't just whistle, he is like a one man symphony, a literal symphony.  He stood, his back to the path I was on, staring up at the trees, serenading them with his orchestra. The trees and the birds and the early morning sun enveloped him as one of their own.

I returned home, tingling from being outside again.  Fire trucks tore past, barreling toward the Capitol, racing to put out the man that had deliberately set himself on fire, just hoping to get someone's attention that he needed help.