The sun disappears behind the mountain at four o'clock in the winter, and the Deepwell neighborhood begins its lazy descent into twilight. I water the ficus hedges and the rosebeds, and once the greenery is sated I start out on my walk.
The neighborhood is a study in fifties geometry- long low ranch homes and tall majestic Palm Trees. The homes are a mixture of sweet old lady originals and glamorous restorations. The picture windows are either hidden behind yellowing draperies or else wide open with Bertoia chairs and Eames lounges on proud display.
It is twilight and the light of the day is fading, although darkness has not completely taken over. The jet trails stand out in the rapidly fading skies, the crescent moon almost directly overhead. A neighbor walks his dog, hurrying to get home before dark. A little blond girl on a bicycle calls out to her mother not to go so fast. Yard lights and porch lights awaken. Dramatic yard lighting highlights certain Palm Trees like movie stars at a premiere. The only sound is the crickets. It is peaceful and exquisitely ordinary.
I wonder to myself, was it like this last night in Japan? Did the people clear the dishes and fold the laundry with no inkling of what was about to happen? Was it this exquisitely ordinary, and can it all really change that quickly? Are we that fragile?
The skies have gone dark, with only the moon to guide me as I walk home under the silhouettes of the Palm Trees.
