Snow

The forecast howls with freezing temperatures and gale warnings, the threat (or promise) of snow staggers across the screen, we brave the Brooklyn winds to condense our farewells into appropriate soundbites. Sometimes there isn't more to say; all is well.

I return to my village, wrapping my coat tighter, but light of heart. We speak of the holidays, and he says you never really have the city to yourself, but nothing could be further from the truth. Sometimes you walk a street in this town, and every other person melts away, you can whisper your secrets into the sidewalk and know the city will hold them. On the other side of the country, the evening is mild, and warm, and tomorrow it will be sunny again, but no matter. Sometimes it isn't a competition:

all is well.