Old Snow

He was standing on his stoop, looking-out over his street. The air was low and frigid, the sky began to turn pink as the sun set. Winter in the Northeast is bitterly cold and mercilessly wet. It's a nice day when the sun shines... even if it is thirty-one degrees. The moist cold cut through his trench coat and into every part of him. But he was fine, more-or-less, so long as he had a cigarette and the sky was pretty. Standing there, on his stoop, having a smoke after a long day, he began to acquiesce to his thoughts.

So many winters had come and gone. Every year it grew cold, again and again. The years were beginning to pile-up. Like forsaken junk in the yard. Rusted odds and ends. Here today, gone tomorrow. Where were the years going? He lost a little more every year... then a little more... then a little more. Year-after-year, he lost a little more but fell into something else. A little youth for age. A few dreams for wisdom. Some faith for knowledge. Passion for comfort. Was the trade worth it? He didn't know, but he mulled-over a response.

Years ago, winter was a positive thing, or... at least... not so complicated. A good snowfall was a blessing, not a challenge. Snow was great when it was nice, wet and heavy. Good for making snow balls. Nice hard ones, too. The kind that make a "thud" when they hit. A kid could take a beating after it snowed. Especially down here, where the snow was always wet and the kids were particularly vicious. It was training... it tempered them against the world. Hard, brutal, good ol' American violence. It was fun... of course... especially to pitiless children who knew enough, even at that young age, to focus on the smallest and the weakest. Then somebody would get hurt and everyone would just go home or find another battle. Little mercenaries, damn the consequences, just find another one to get your kicks off. It was a "fuck-you" attitude that was common in these parts. It was something for adults who didn't even own their own homes to pass-down to their kids.

At the end of the day, he would be alone, still sore and certainly tired, but still young and thick-blooded enough to not freeze. The sunset seemed magical. The soft, warm pastel sky fading into the smog over the horizon. The ambient roar of the highway filled the wet, bitter air, the tire tracks froze into dazzling patterns in the muddy slush.

The world seemed smaller now, and his blood with thinner now, and the insulation of childhood was gone now. He needed a coat not to freeze, a cigarette to quell his nerves and a cup of coffee to get his motor running. The sunset had dipped into a cold, dark blue as grimy street lights popped-on. His cigarette was long done and he was growing colder and colder. Time to go in, time to rest.