Beamed

July 2, 1999. Early on day ninety-three in Montreal, I sat up and took off my headphones, listening to pattering on the window. A rumble tailed the heels of a flash. I ran to the switch, banished the dark with artificial fire, and squinted at dead moths in the ceiling lamp. Huddled in bed with Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I decided: if the storm was gone when I finished reading, I would go to the Old Port to see the sunrise. I knew not if hope was lost, but it was better to be safe.

Sometime later, I looked up from the last page, and saw it was meant to be.