by Judith Meyerowitz
As if seasonal, pulsating red lights enter my second-floor apartment. There is no noise. The red glow is almost warming on this chilly Christmas Eve. I separate the blinds with my fingers, but the building scaffolding allows me to see only the top of the emergency vehicle which looks like neither police car nor ambulance. It is white with a low roof that ends in graceful wings.
I hear behind me a shuffling of steps and the voice of the woman next door who I have heard shouting in the hall at times or crying through our shared bathroom wall.
I think of their barely school age daughter. I never see either of them. Do they go outside? When the mother bangs the walls or yells, “I want to break things. I want the knife,” is the daughter watching and when her mother is taken away?
Christmas Eve is an emotional trigger. Their dog madly barking/crying in the apartment as moments ago its owner had been. It was not a good holiday for the dog either.
There had been a light tap at my door minutes earlier. Was it the child? the mother? Narrow views through blinds and peepholes. I do not want to know too much.
I assume the small family next door will go on as before. He wears a University of Texas tee. Isn’t that normalcy?
I see a police officer, a young child, a dog drop from peephole sight as each descends the stairs. The red glow flashes hypnotically between my blinds but disappears as the winged rescue vehicle rises quietly over the tall buildings on Lexington Ave. The only sound is of the dog barking.
Judith’s writing interests have deepened after taking the Writing Workshop sg for several semesters. These experiences have led her to explore other writing classes at the 92nd St. Y where this prose piece was developed.