❄️ 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.
 
 

A Noir Morning in Peekskill
I. Snowfall
Sunday morning light filtered through the blinds, pale and cold. It had finally snowed in Peekskill—real snow, the kind that transforms dull brown and gray landscapes into glistening white hills, the kind that pulls children outdoors shrieking with laughter, boots kicking up powder. I’d waited for this since moving north; what’s the point of cold if not for snow?
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The world felt new, softer somehow. But beneath that softness lingered the sharp edge of last night’s memory—a brush with danger, a reminder that beauty and menace often walk together.

II. Laundry and Fate
Most days, I try not to think about the sick and twisted souls that walk this world. I keep to myself. But some days, you don’t get that choice. Last night was one of those days.
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The plan was simple: laundry Saturday morning. But after Joaquin crashed at my place following Friday night’s dinner party, we slept in. The laundry waited all day until the evening.

At 7 p.m., arms full of sheets, towels, clothes, and a bottle of Tide, I headed down from the sixth floor to the laundry room on the first.  The elevator ride was uneventful until the doors paused on the second floor.

III. The Encounter
A man stood waiting. “Hey, I’m security,” he said.

​He was tall, in loose jeans and a short-sleeved shirt—no uniform, just chatter about his new role, about protecting “us.” Something didn’t add up. I’d seen security before—always in uniform, never this man. But my hands were full, my mind on laundry.

Then he pulled out a kitchen butcher knife. Still insisting he was “security.”

What kind of security carries a butcher knife? My pulse quickened. I thought of Charlotte, North Carolina—the girl stabbed on the train by a deranged man. I thought of her, and of the fact that here I was, trapped in an elevator with nowhere to go.

I told him I couldn’t continue the conversation, that I had to meet someone. He stepped back. The doors closed. Relief washed over me.

IV. Shadows in the Lobby
In the laundry room, I could still hear him upstairs, talking to someone in the lobby. A woman on her phone looked up as he repeated his story about being “security.”

Later, on my return trip to switch clothes to the dryer, the elevator stopped again. He tried once more to engage me. I told him firmly I lived here and didn’t care to be disturbed. He backed off.

V. The Police
When I stepped out onto the first floor, three uniformed officers were rushing in—two men, one woman. The blond officer approached me quickly: “Sir, have you seen a man pretending to be security?”

Half-shocked, I said yes. “On the second floor.”

They instructed me to stay in the laundry room as they searched the building. That was the last I saw of them—or of the man.

VI. Aftermath
Now, safe at home, I think about it again. The snow keeps falling, soft and beautiful. But the memory of that knife, that stranger, lingers.

The world shivers strange. Beauty and danger, side by side.