This morning as I walked to the subway and passed the banks of garbage-filled snow, I felt like the magic of the storm had worn off.
I was surprised to find a dollar bill mixed in among the debris; as pleased as I was, as if I were a five-year old version of myself, I almost regretted it after putting the wet bill into my pocket, where I could feel its cold dampness against my leg.
As I continued up the block, I admired the row of brownstones in the eastern light, and considered the strength of paper bills; it seemed remarkable to me that money can go through the wash and survive. There are still dozens and dozens of abandoned townhouses in Washington Heights; most are not on the market, but are stuck in some sort of bureaucratic purgatory from which they may never emerge, at least during my lifetime.
I would never call myself patriotic, but I could not deny the beauty of the light streaming through the U.S. flag attached to the fire station.
On the subway platform I was amused by the graffiti.
Suffering from a cold, I returned home early from work, in time to see the sun arcing down over Washington Heights.
The sky was made even more blue than usual by the white snow of the rooftops.
Time passed and I contemplated the end of another day, this one slightly longer than the one that had preceded it.
I had many things to do, but as I watched the bridge under the bands of color, I knew that all of them could wait.
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