I heard thunder rumble. Far away. The sun was shining. Very bright for 7:30 in the evening. Almost like midday. But not as hot. Today was a scorcher. July in central Florida can be one hot, muggy hell.
But it was bearable at 7:3o and the thunder was maybe a false alarm so I decided to walk off dinner.
Not far though. Just to the end of my street and back. There’s this one stretch at the north end that looks more like a campground than suburbia. Thick with twisty old oaks whose limbs reach across the road, and lots of palmetto.
In a front yard three houses down sat a big flatbed truck with long metal pipes strapped on, and a big gaping hole where grass used to be. Pope’s Well Drilling it said on the side of the truck.
Not far into the walk I saw two birds fly across the road and into the trees. Hawks. Small, maybe kestrels. I could hear their calls. I stopped walking and scanned the trees, but no luck.
This end of the street is so pretty. A woman I used to know from a therapy group 20 years ago grew up on this street. So pretty, she said, especially on the north end. That was before I moved here.
She told us her mother committed suicide when she was a kid, on this very street. It left scars. She got married a few years into the group and had a baby, moved away. She seemed happy last time I saw her. But I always wonder, when I pass by the houses at that end – was it this one? That one?
The thunder was getting closer and the sky turning stormy-purple to the east so I hurried home.