The city gets quiet. The air fills with white snow flakes and it is as though for almost a second everything around you is wholesome. All the cars look like miniaturized snow hills when lined up along the sidewalks. The side walks shimmer with the gleam of the melted snow flakes and the hardened icy spots. Even the sterile black bags of garbage that line the streets for tomorrow's pick up take adopt this delicate role as the snow piles atop and in between its every wrinkle. They almost look like cupcakes. The bench outside of Tiny's Giant Sandwich shop that goes unnoticed as you pass it every day to and from the train suddenly catches your eye.
From way up high it's like New Year's confetti falling from the highest skyscraper. The cold, wet snow stings your cold skin. The snowflakes cling to your wool coat like little soap suds. With every step the snow flakes that fall-- dissolve on the ground beneath you. Peering down there remains not a trace of the snow that makes every object around you look pure, untouched and beautiful.
I am still patiently waiting for my chance to build my Frosty. Throw my first snow ball. Make a snow angel and slide down Central Parks highest hill. I think what keeps the excitement of the first snow fall, and this merely speculation on my part, is its capacity to revert so many jaded (see: unimpressed) adults to a time when everything seemed easy. I think I can hold on to my excitement because after 24 years, I have yet to play (yes, play) in it.
I remember the first time I saw it flurry. I was walking home from Sansbury in London. It never fell as much as I had wished (or nearly as much as it is falling now), but I can still picture it falling throwing the twiggy branches of the trees that lined Byng Place. I equated the very moment to the cover of an old record you'd find in a vintage record shop long forgotten.
Even after a 12 hour work day (today). It's hard to walk out at 8:45 p.m. in Midtown and not be anything but happy.
It's snowing...
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