First snow flurries of the season, for me anyway, cutting down Washington Street in Hoboken at 6:30 this morning. Sweet, icy burn as they hit my face and melted instantly. The light rail hummed in and out of the station, down by the riverfront. It was oddly quiet, considering the racket outside only a couple hours before, the shouts of young men, drunk and everything that goes along with being drunk. Fighting. Boasting. Girlfriends shrill and sloppy. But at 6:30 a.m. it’s as if none of that ever happened. Maybe it didn’t. If it did it doesn’t really matter. Nothing of consequence. Nothing to see here.
Rinse and repeat.
The first snowflakes of the season make me as excited now as they did when I was a young boy. Maybe more now that there are fewer snows across the Northeast each winter. They are a quiet thrill though and I’m grateful for them.
I’m grateful that the cold weather has returned and that I’m still here to see it. Does that sound melodramatic? That’s probably going to depend on your age. I’m in the 4th quarter and there is never a guarantee that the game won’t end early, the result of some seismic event, or perhaps the lights just go out. It doesn’t sound melodramatic to me. Not in the slightest.
It’s quiet back in Brooklyn and I’m grateful for this mixtape. I’m grateful for the morning and I’m grateful for the first snowflakes of the season.