I stand at the window, looking out, waiting for inspiration to strike.
Rain that is more than rain but slightly less than snow is slanting from the sky. I watch it catch the light of the streetlamp on its way down to the pavement below.
I didn’t feel much like writing yesterday, and I don’t feel much like writing today. I watch the umbrellas shuffling by and try to figure out why. My brain’s an inscrutable fog. But the answer lies nearer to my heart. I can feel it now—tender, vulnerable.
The tiny frozen drops prick the window as I realize I’m standing at an unwelcome precipice. My weight is shifting from heels to toes, from past to future.
I think about all of the scenes in all of the movies where characters stand on train platforms and sing mournfully into the camera about the heartbreak of leaving.
I can see that the snow is fighting to stick now. There’s a jagged dust piling up on the ivy that covers the Broadway median, and the roofs of the cars parked on the street are beginning to frost. I listen to the first scrapes of shovels against the sidewalks and wonder how long the storm will last.