Small Suburban Incident

A tree falls into a swimming pool. It is early, the morning. The wife is in the kitchen. The dogs through the glass door outside jump up at once. I can’t describe those first seconds. The surface of the pool is or was covered with a thermal blanket, some sort of synthetic solar sandwich, a bold plastic playtime blue. This is or was the sound. The tree covers it. Or so I imagine. I am not there.

Her husband could have been swimming, the wife tells me.

I listen to her voice.

The grandchildren might have been there, she says.

Under the words.

It could have fallen on the house, she says.

The separate story of the sound of her voice.

Don’t touch anything, I tell her. I’ll come over.

But I don’t. I’m not well. I’ve been ill. I’m just that day out of hospital. I don’t trust myself driving. I’m too tired. I want to but I can’t. I’m still full of medication. I’m sorry. Please. I’ll try tomorrow. I’ll be better tomorrow. I have to lie down.

So it’s the morning of the next day before I do,…