today a fire truck pulled up into the bus lane of my street. it stopped. i watched it from the second story window, through the sheer, gauzy fabric of my window shades. i wanted the driver to be mistaken, to have misidentified the house number he was looking for. i held my wet hair up on the top of my head — i had just showered — willing with my eyes for the driving firefighter to press his foot upon the gas again.
i had no such power.
and so for the third time, i believe, this month, he’s off to the psych ward at the hospital again. where his son cannot visit, and who knows when or how he will return.
meanwhile, the sun has finally come out for more than show. the orange glow upon our houses not only looks warm, but when it hits my skin it feels it. i wish he wasn’t missing this. still, i know all my wishes are without teeth. i still don’t know the first thing about what i need, let alone, him.