Rain. June. An Untaken Photograph.

We walked to Hamilton Park this Sunday evening — on Father’s Day. Petra held a candle. She didn’t say a word.

Black umbrellas moved quietly ahead of us. The streets were unusually still. Parents walked slowly, their children silent. Even the cars passed with caution, as if the rain had made everything softer, slower, slightly out of time.

People gathered around the gazebo. Black umbrellas. Candles in hand. A beautiful Jewish prayer — Michael, Gabriel. And then the rain blurred it all.

We didn’t even feel it. That kind of rain — weightless, cinematic, unreal. It didn’t feel like our city. It didn’t feel like it could be real life.

On a sunny Friday afternoon, a six-year-old boy from our street went for a bike ride with his father…

A UPS truck. A tragic turn.

The boy didn’t come home.

Since then, the rain hasn’t stopped.

I didn’t bring my camera.

This is the only image I have.

Taken later. Through the window.

Of a street that now feels different.