A low-hanging and full moon replaced the sunrise at dawn, its orange face waxing happy and sad in the cold December morning. Contrasted with a slate gray sky and snow-covered rooftops, it was unsettling to see such a vibrant relic of the previous night, as if it weren’t hard enough to get out of bed in winter. The winter, when nothing equals the heaven of three blankets, a sizzling radiator, and the slow lifting of eyelids as the alarm sounds five minutes after hitting snooze.
Ominous, the moon hovered there throughout the early morning into mid-day, over the grungy New Jersey Transit train, all the way into the belly of Penn Station. In the terminal, passengers slipped over the muddy remnants of graceful snowflakes and the melted grime of the Greater New York area. Morning papers fell flush against the floor, melting deeper into the blue linoleum, like some paper mache recreation of a commuter’s carelessness.
Outside, the breeze felt freshly cooled over the chunks of ice and snow lining and melting in the street. The entire city paused in the glow of a red traffic light, waiting in puddles of newly liquid snow for a gap in the mad rush of traffic. Across the way, a young woman with wildly curly hair and ripped jeans sprang over the opposing puddle, her head tilted right toward the oncoming cars. She sauntered over, with goosebumps, gracefully reaching the other side.
This was written in response to The Daily Post‘s Weekly Writing Challenge, “Collecting Detail.”
Photograph from Wikimedia Commons