It wasn't really worth fighting about, but then it also wasn't not worth fighting about, and anyway, you've been in a bad mood for a while now, for a lot of reasons. The woman next-door has decided to take up the piano. And so she practices, everyday but Sunday, from three-thirty to five-thirty. It must be about that time, then.
How did it get so late? Roll over on your parents' bed and wonder how close they are to where they're going. Probably more or less halfway. The dogs will want to eat soon. But first just stare, out at the tree branches, down at the bus stop and the three houses you've stared at, just like this, so many times before.
The stillness that follows the storm. The leaves rustling just outside your half-open window, the new neighbor kicking a ball to his little boy, someone whistling, and those lilting, uncertain piano scales, drifting along in the afternoon breeze:
The things that hold the world together.
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