when it snows on eastern parkway

I remember blizzards in 96. snow angels in the middle of the street. snow angels in the back yard. The glow of street lights and the strange warmth of the night.

the cold. it brings misery. they say, why? get used to it. you grew up in it. cold is cold, I say. my wardrobe, unprepared. short sleeves, short pants, short coats. But it's February now and winter is almost over, no? Mahjah says I'm gonna catch a cold in my butt. But two winters back in new york and I'm still unprepared. I'm still not used to this.

no.

you get used to being a child. growing up in a house with your parents and siblings. your granny. and threats of blizzards unleash a yearning for freedom. when you could run in the middle of the street. fall on your back. and become an angel. not a single car will appear. then you run back into your yard. try to convince your father that you can shovel. fail. and make an angel in the driveway to protest.

and now sit in a cab silently. staring out the window. at a snowy eastern parkway. praying not to lose the memory.