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It’s her bedtime. She knows it’s her bedtime. She asks if she can go outside just once more before brushing teeth and putting on pajamas. I remind her it’s bedtime. She asks if we can go out and see the sunset. I glance out the window and say I don’t think there’s a special sunset tonight. She asks if we can just go out one more time.

I say okay. What are summers for if not occasionally staying up late.

And we step outside.

And it is almost silent.

We stand on the porch.

“Why is it quiet?” she asks.

“I guess everyone has gone inside. And there are no cars right now. And the birds are going to sleep,” I say.

“Can we go around the block?”

“No, it’s still bedtime. Just to the corner and back.”

We start down the sidewalk in the cooling dusk air. Not a soul in sight.

“It’s so quiet,” she whispers.

And she’s right. It’s oddly, beautifully still.

And I wouldn’t be experiencing it if she hadn’t insisted on this walk.

We approach the corner, both knowing we will then head back home.

We stop and just stand there. Listening. Feeling.

“It’s so quiet,” she says.

Photo courtesy of Eric Coble