This Moment: 7:56 A.M. March 17, 2012

The wind sounds like a chorus of furious ghosts. The sky is gray, the color of melancholy. A small woman in yellow quick steps, as if dancing, on the sidewalk in front of my house. I hear my husband yell the small dog's name and know he has once again broken from his leash and is running free. I imagine his small face pressed into the wind, his smug self-satisfaction when he saunters back into the yard. I woke from a dream of falling, of watching the man plummet headfirst through the blue sky that September morning. Why am I dreaming of him eleven years later? A steady caravan of cars roll past, their headlights a mute point. My husband has his starched shirts spread out on the bed and is removing them from the plastic sheaths. The small dog noses the discarded wrapping and stamps his back paw before settling between the shirts and the growing mound of plastic. A truck pulling what appears to be an igloo drives past. Tree branches are knocking back and forth in the wind. The storm is minutes away.