The gunshots entered into her apartment. They filled the window panes, and seemed to float on the sides of the window. They did allow the light from the snow to lift back into her room.
Talia hurriedly pushed open the doorway into the hallway, and let her socks get wet by the snow that caught itself on the mat. She pulled on her large boots from the doorway, and grabbed the large orange shovel at the door. She felt the cold as the shovel handle touched the side of her bare arms.
She quickly pushed open the door with her side, and stepped out onto the first step, and began to shovel. The shovel met the snow, again, and then again. The sound of the shovel hitting the snow, hitting the pavement, and hitting the snow again.
Lydia would hear the snow shoveling through her window above. She would be sitting with Mark in front of the television. The sound of the shovel would blanket the sound of the gunshots coming into the bedroom from the television.
I’ve been playing with the way war plays out here in New York, where we live far and intimately with it. How do we make sense of our responsibilities to our friends, their families, and our neighbors?