This morning Abby gets caught in a monsoon. She runs towards home. The slogging sound of her shoes, heavy with water, is muffled by loud, continuous claps of thunder, and hard rain drilling the pavement.
The traffic lights begin to blink as the power grid flickers. Abby runs through the intersection. A car races through, too, without slowing down. She raises a finger at the driver. Is she thankful there will be no new descanso at that crossroad?
The rain stops. The clouds continue on, leaving behind bright blue patches of sky. Steam rises up from the sidewalk. Abby tries and fails to wipe away the water dripping down her face.
House lights come on as power is restored. Abby breathes in the scent of juniper. She waves to a neighbor rushing along with her Labrador. Abby takes a breath to say something, but the neighbor is already gone.
Abby notices my garage door is open a foot or so. Whenever the power fluctuates, my garage door opens, sometimes closing again, most times not—a problem someone will have to fix.
She rings my doorbell, waits, rings, and waits. She presses her face to the stained glass, looking through the green, purple, and orange into my neat, sparsely furnished living room. She gives up on me and leaves her wet footprints behind.
She bends down at the garage door opening and squeezes through it. Her wet clothes leave a blotch on the concrete floor where her t-shirt and shorts come together. Then her knees, hands, and feet create small, wet spots as she lifts herself off the floor.
I sense a good-neighborly plan to reset the garage door. After pressing the button to open it, Abby will hit the button again and race out before the door closes.
The garage is dark until she hits the right button and the door opens. The light brings her attention to a curiosity leaning against the wall. She picks up a laminated card and reads it.
“Who would do such a thing for me?” Abby asks aloud.
Someone, I hope.
She now knows.
My house and yard, so well cared for, attended to, loved. The laminated card attached to a ghost bike awaiting the pandemic to ease so that it can join the other descansos along the route Abby runs.
She understands now.
My whole quiet house, a descanso for me. For Marco.
Playwright turned novelist, J.D. Eames lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico with her wife and the world’s best dog. She’s on Twitter and Instagram as @PeaceableWriter.