Quiet outside. Not a sound.
It's the best part of the day because the silence enshrines those who aren't sleeping yet. It is a holy sensation to realize that the only light in the dark comes from where you are.
I often imagine a passer-by peeking, unseen, into our kitchen: he will see the cotton tablecloth and a pinkish light from the lantern, and he will think of the scene as a warm Kincade indoor setting.
It doesn't stop and it's not the refrigerator fan. The walls and the ceilings shake.
C.'s hand, gently holding mine from the nearest side of the table, has now a firmer grip. I get up prompting her to do the same, and I say, "Come". I open the door leading to the terrace and fire-escape, but we just stand underneath the door jamb. The rumble is much louder from outside.
C. doesn't understand why we're not rushing in the yard, so I say, "Trust me".
She is holding me tight leaning her head against my chest, and I hold her tight too.
I see a cat bolting scared across the back street from the backyard.
And it's gone: "See? We're still here together".
No big deal, really. I'm used to it, but the rumble, with its soft and caring muffled sound, still manages to form in me a sensation of deep disquietude.
I used to be very fascinated by Jung's description of the human psyche as linked to the geology of the earth.
What if the quake was but a perturbation of the soul? Mine, maybe, or her's, or someone else's, or, rather, of a wider collective conscience?
This happened last night at 12.22am and lasted for about fifteen seconds.
Have you ever experienced an earthquake, or a temblor? Which aspect of it scares you the most?