❄️ Gallery Below: A Winter in Peekskill
From Fort Hill’s snow-draped peaks to the solemn hush of St. Mary’s Cemetery, the storm left its signature across every stone and branch. Abbey Inn stood watch like a cloistered sentinel, while the pond froze over in quiet reverence. Boys built a snowman in a park on Decatur Avenue—laughter echoing through the cold.

Inside the park, West and East Redoubt offered stunning views: city rooftops softened by snow, trees sculpted by silence.
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This gallery captures the storm’s grace—its weight, its wonder, and the paths we followed through it.

The world is draped in a peculiar haze after Christmas—one I can’t quite shrug off, no matter how many times I stare out the window at the Peekskill streets waiting for this afternoon’s snow.

This is only the prologue, the first act of that long festival we call Christmas—when we mark not just the birth of Christ, but the slow turning toward Epiphany, that midnight hour on January 6 when the Magi, threads of gold and frankincense and hope, finally reach the manger.

In the Catholic calendar, the celebrations will gather themselves on the first Sunday— this season, that’s January 4, 2026—and stretch faithfully and relentlessly until January 11. But my daze is not ecclesiastical; its roots are tangled somewhere deeper, somewhere visceral, wound around the memory of last night’s food and laughter.

I spent Christmas with three men—Puerto Rican exiles, each carrying a little New York, a little San Juan, in their swagger and their stories. The night unraveled in easy camaraderie, cocktails stacking up like colored glass in my mind, the smoke from a shared cigarette curling around us. I danced, awkward and unashamed, finding in their company the rare permission to forget past sins and present worries.

The walls of the room, for once, held only warmth and forgiveness. Occasionally, the city outside would press its face to the glass, but within, we were untouchable, buoyed by rum and rhythm and the welcome anonymity of friends.

Joaquin was there, having stayed through the night—a silent testament to survival. My sleep had been fractured by dreams, ominous and swollen with dread—Joaquin caught in some unseen snare. When he confessed his own brush with violence—a blow to the back, a gash blossoming purple on his temple—the line between dream and waking horror blurred. I wanted to banish it all, the blood and the fear, but instead I buried myself in the party’s noise, grateful for the distraction, for the defiant joy that filled every glass and plate.

And the food—my God, the food. The next morning, my tongue still tingled from the spicy gumbo, my stomach ached with happiness and regret. Somehow, that simple, shared meal felt like an act of faith—proof that, at least for one night, we could be together, alive and unafraid, savoring what the season offered before the world began again.