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It was quiet, she thought-

the woman walking through

the hilly cemetery at dusk-

a quiet that announced itself,

somehow,

mixing in the light streams reflecting

and yawning off Miami Valley Hospital's

windows; magenta and canary-

cerulean, too-

all spilling through the dust

and shadows and branches above

the tombs, tracing an airy

backdrop on which a yellow warbler

was flitting, making its own sort of

announcement, stamping

seasonal presence early-

in the first inning, even,

the little daredevil.

Quiet, and quiet, and more quiet-

except for the warbler, of course,

and a cargo plane making a lazy sweep

over from Wright Patt,

and a few engine drawls on Brown Street-

(less than usual, though, as most students

had already shuffled back to their starting points;

the baristas and teachers and data analysts

and stylists and artists all homebound, too,

pacing and tracing and making do-

the vehicles were mostly full of grocers

and nurses and responders and

nervous parents, some driving toward those same hospital windows

on which the magenta and canary and cerulean spilled.)

She leaned against a tree,

closed her eyes-

exhaled,

then looked over her shoulder

at a boulder.

Yes, a boulder.

It seemed to her that the

boulder announced itself,

too, even more than

the quiet and the warbler-

carved, faded

from the Arizona sun,

and almost thirty-thousand pounds,

they say.

She considered the boulder-

all who'd passed it,

all who'd paused before it,

all the laughter and sighs

and tensions and tears

that had spilled out before it,

both in desert sunlight

and Ohio fog.

She considered, too,

the woman from Centerville, that

hurricane of a writer,

that anchor of a friend,

that force of nature whose spark had

given the boulder reason to make

its own pilgrimage all the way to

these cemetery grounds,

this quiet oasis.

What would that laughter,

that keen watcher from the past

say to the present,

to the warbler and the wind,

to the grocers and cops

and parents and sons

and daughters navigating this

new normal, this screaming quiet

marked by weary glances

and stock market zigzags

and solemn pressers

at the top of the hour?

Quiet,

and then less quiet,

as the woman in the present

announced to

the cemetery,

to the warbler and the trees,

to her quiet city and still campus,

to her restless country and scattered world-

Empty your pockets.

She sprung from the tree,

a small smile emerging;

shook out her shoulders,

gave a nod to the boulder

and a wink to the warbler,

and strolled toward the gates-

that's what she'd say, yes!-

Empty your pockets and stride,

stride toward laughter in the living room

and held hands by the fire

and e-mails with old friends,

toward yelps over the lost remote

and backyard concerts

and balcony concertos

soaring over signals

and ocean winds,

toward the responders and the deciders

and the stockers and the grocers,

toward hard conversations

and interrupted grief

and mustered courage,

toward all those human souls,

those sparks of light

living the Centerville writer's words

in the shaky present

whether they knew it or not,

tying themselves

to the infinite,

emptying their pockets

with nothing to return,

using everything given,

reckoning with

everything thrown their way.

She reached the gates-

her small smile an announcement,

a declaration-

and walked off into the dusk.

(Inspired by the words and life of Erma Bombeck.)

- Dominic Sanfilippo

Dominic Sanfilippo is a Chicagoland native, a mediocre ping-pong player and an aspiring hiker; he's also proud to be both a Dayton Flyer and former contributing staff writer forFlyer News, the University of Dayton's student publication. Since graduating in philosophy and human rights studies from the University of Dayton in 2016, he has variously worked as an educator and community organizer in Dayton, Ohio; San Diego, California; and the southwest suburbs of Chicago. He currently teaches courses on philosophy, religious dialogue and sacramental imagination at Regina Dominican High School in Wilmette, Illinois.