In the morning, it snows, lazy snowflakes converging in the tree tops, barely making it all the way to the ground. The city suspends alternate street parking for "snow removal," even though the snow seems to be removing itself, and you take the break as a wink from the city. How it beamed at you yesterday, driving back in the late afternoon, watching golden hour settle on the skyscrapers, going to sleep with the slight but constant hum of the East Village outside your open window (the radiators still running their own race to the tropics). Returning to the city is a cure for whatever ails you, it's a sweet burst of joy in your chest when you had grown accustomed to doldrums, I thought I could stay in the creaky house forever but it isn't true, eventually I always itch to walk avenue B until it jumbles the jagged pieces right, until it closes the circuit and sends my limbs humming again.
Brooklyn is grey even after the snow passes, is cold like January can get in your bones, is humbled by the winds and the season and the life. But you feel the seeds in your lungs, sense them vibrate to the approaching spring, know that you have made it through a hundred winters before and your limbs are weathered with survival.
Your eyes opened in hopeful anticipation.
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