"A Day for Mozart and Snow"

Snowfall over Fort Hill—where silence smooths the edges of memory.

..Prelude
Some days arrive dressed in music. Today belonged to Mozart—Concerto No. 21, Andante. Not the stripped‑down piano version, but the full orchestration, swelling and receding like the snow outside. Melodrama suits me. The strings rise, the winds sigh, and the flakes descend—big, soft, puffy, dissolving on my tongue like secrets I shouldn’t tell.

The Joy of Wintry Weather
Snow makes me happy in ways that feel almost illicit. I spoke with my best friend far away, his voice carried across the distance like a warm refrain. He loves the snow as much as I love him. Long‑distance is not always a curse; sometimes it purifies, keeps you centered, unless you let yourself wander into shadows. But shadows are part of the rhythm, aren’t they?

Snowfall and Pure Delight
Looking up, I saw the sky surrender—snow falling hard, like cats and dogs, like confessions. My heaven is cold, painted white instead of blue. More beautiful than any man, more stunning than desire itself. The world outside transformed into a Great White Out, a stage set for memory and noir.

Small Moments in Town
Morning brought a meeting with a girl from Fishkill, working on finances I prefer to ignore. I prayed for her safe return to Dutchess County. I walked her to her car, snow still falling, and realized too late I could have told her to park in the Public Garage—free for the holidays, four hours at no cost. Instead, she fed a meter on Main Street.

Later, I greeted Salah too eagerly and nearly sent him sliding on the ice. I caught him before either of us fell. Monkee was shoveling snow, New York Gold—$100 an hour if you’re willing to break your back. Boys should try it. Better than fleeting hustles.

Yet nothing lasts. Sometimes all you need is a cigarette to forget the snow, the slip, the silence.

The Magic of Snow
I love the snow. Sometimes I wish I were the snow—falling, pure, before I melt away.

Warmth and Memories
Hot chocolate in hand, I ran into my buddy, Leo, from Ecuador. I never told him about the mask I bought from a local Ecuadorian artist, now hanging on my wall. As I sipped hot chocolate, he suggested adding rum in the chocolate. I laughed, but he was serious. So, I told him I would try it next time…perhaps even with him. He confessed his sadness—no family here, holidays heavy with absence, weighted like snow that never melts. I told him soberly we were family here, one community, one solidarity.

He understood my feelings, yet for him, the experience was different. I found myself thinking back to my own childhood Christmases, spent with my brothers as we waited in anticipation for morning to arrive on the longest night of the year—Christmas Eve. Back then, my younger brothers always amused me, so quick to follow every command Charles gave them. Even when Charles issued directions that he knew were misguided or certain to lead to trouble, both of them would obey without question...Like that time I was feeling rebellious and stole Grandpa's pickup after he told me no. I found a spare key and roped my two brothers into a wild adventure through the backwoods of South Carolina. As scared as they were, I still don’t know why, but they had my back the whole way.

Times have changed. My brothers no longer follow blindly, and I am grateful for the independence that comes with growing older.
 
Family and Friendship
Family above all. I understood his longing. Peekskill’s rugged men, its streets, its snow—they are mine now.

At Peekskill Coffee, the girl at the counter remembered me, remembered my order. I left feeling good, walking up North Division Street through the snow, catching flakes on my tongue, claiming the town as my own.

Shadows and Boundaries
Our town has become my own, its boundaries drawn, long-held questions finally answered. In a recent conversation, I told him about a dream where he was no longer alive. He responded with a story of his own—a palm reader once told him he would die at thirty-eight, now that he is on the verge of turning thirty-eight next April. It sounded ridiculous, but somehow that prediction stuck with him, and because he shared it, it lingered in my thoughts too.

​Shadows have a way of traveling like that, quietly settling into the corners of our minds.  I expect nothing from him—how could I, when he resents the person who lives in my heart, the one who remains unseen in cyberspace and untouched in the physical world. Perhaps I am only a single tree and not the entire forest, but at least I understand what lies within his heart. Some things simply cannot be changed.