Margen
Ever since I moved into the building, there's been a fresh note by the mailboxes every morning, in small, crooked handwriting: 'Shy sun until five. After that, take an umbrella.' Signed: P. The weatherman on TV gets it wrong; P, never. Absurdly precise calls: April's hailstorm, 'between 3:40 and 4:00 p.m.'; Thursday's stifling heat, 'only on the streets facing the river.' The couple on the third floor come down in slippers to read it. The lady on the fifth takes pictures of it. No one has ever seen anyone put it up.
This morning the note said only: 'Tomorrow: stay home.'
We all stayed, without agreeing to, each of us behind our own window. It was a perfectly normal day: sunshine, the odd car, a delivery man whistling. Nothing happened. At no point did anything happen.
Today there's a new note by the mailboxes, in the usual handwriting: 'Thank you. Clear skies all week.'
There's no name on P's mailbox. But since yesterday, when I walk past it, I say hello.