Hills disappear overnight. I wake in a cloud and step onto my balcony to test the air, imagining a child imagining themselves walking onto the clouds. Mary Poppins sits in one powdering her nose, bobbing. I do not bob but am cushioned. Mornings like this are why I live here.
Then a loud bang, a real explosion, ricocheting between my building and the one next-door. I throw myself inside with a very real, American reflex.
Safe. I text my neighbors: two women who have lived on Lamma far longer than me and possess far, far more Lamma lore. They are the neighbors you want to have. When they tell a story, you feel like five years on this island is only five days.
One didn’t hear anything but suspects the sound was why she woke before her alarm. The other was in the shower but definitely heard it. A firework? Lunar New Year approaches. It’s nothing. Check for singe marks on the building. We do have that one crazy neighbor, they say.
Alright.
I open the fridge to have a glass of milk. There it is. A can of soda water frozen solid. It burst right along the aluminum seam. Ice and tinsel fill the fridge. The temperature dial reads zero.