Night Balloons

The magic of winter in New York has a short shelf life. The holly and jolly expire January 2, but then you’re stuck with a sour season of cold, colds, and bad moods for months to come. It consumes you, sucking the light out of the days, and the mirth from your bones. So you barricade yourself inside and board up the exits with excuses. When responsibility finally drags you out into the cold, you leave reluctant and grumpy. Joining the padded ranks of commuters in their quilted armor, staring down at their damp salt-stained boots. The silence of this grim parade punctuated by the occasional wet cough.

Night falls early– a heavy dark exhalation that cuts through coat and bone. You listen to it howl above, as you shiver with other cold sullen ghosts below, waiting for your train to come. Then you look up and there, defying the night, the cold, the concrete, stands a man covered from head to toe in red balloons. You think warmly of the celebrations that were, and those that will be, as the light from your train emerges from the tunnel.