Tax Season

By the time I reached the Meatpacking District, it began to snow. Hesitant, cautious snowflakes, seemingly confused as to their own existance at this time of year, this time of geography. They fluttered aimlessly towards the ground and transformed into raindrops before they even hit the pavement. Spring is ever the manic depressive. I forgive it.

We can't afford to live like this, she says, as her daughter plays hide-and-seek in a cardboard box, oblivious to their troubles. But then, who can? We were raised in years of little money, but all the social safety nets one could dream. Our childhoods were green grass between bare toes and taking life for granted. Her daughter is all concrete and loud sounds and maybe next month you can go to the zoo with the other kids. Still, her sunshine beats its way into my heart, and we giggle together.

It occurs to me that year has passed since that night on the fire escape on Charles Street. How young we were then, how blue our eyes. This city sinks its teeth into all of us.

For better or worse. No one comes out unscathed.