Measure of Temperature

I thought we were supposed to get a blizzard. If you couldn’t see the sprinkling on the rooftops and didn’t walk near a park, you would just assume we were bumping around in the same cold that we have been for a few months. But this cold is different, almost lovely. Until it freezes your face, and you just hope you were smiling and not perpetually frozen in a state of eternal pissed-offery.

And this cold that froze my face this morning–well, afternoon to the rest of the world–brought me back to New York. I forgot, in the craze of school and homework and books and essays, that I live in the city of all cities. The blast of cold air on Broadway forced my gaze upwards, to the tops of buildings that I had to break my neck to see, and I remembered. This place I started to call home sometime ago is so much more than any word I could ever try and contain it in.

To sit in a Starbucks, reading Mixed: An Anthology of Short Fiction on the Multicultural Experience, is to do more than contemplate reading for class. To sit in Faye’s Cafe, on the southeast corner of Washington Square Park, is to be surrounded by a part of New York I could never contain. Sure, a hefty sect of this Starbucks is a collective of college students who have no idea what they’re studying or why. Then you see a tourist or ten and acknowledge this part of the world is historic and creative and more than one description could ever measure.

Again, no real blizzard, not that I am disappointed, rather elated that if my freshly showered hair icicles because of the below freezing temperatures, I don’t have to dodge the puddles of snowy sludge to be reminded of the cold that already snuck its way up my pants. At least if I do need to double layer socks, I can say that I was double layering in the city to rival all cities. It would be my greatest honor to freeze here of all places, with that smile on my face.

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