A damp one, but an exhalation nonetheless.
We have, in this part of the country, been in the middle of a deep freeze that, if nothing else, has granted me the kind of perspective that is necessary to make it through January. Coming off the heels of subzero temperatures, thirty degree weather has never felt so deliciously warm; my own complaints about temperatures in the forties throughout December appear positively ludicrous. And then yesterday, the weather spiked nearly to sixty degrees, the skies yawning to drizzle intermittently while the breeze murmured quietly. It was weather that felt like an apology for the harshness of the week that has passed, and I think much of New York felt this way. Despite the humidity, there seemed to be something of an exodus outdoors in the city, where I met Kelsey for an afternoon wandering around the upper half of Central Park. There were smiles and jackets unzipped just enough to expose pale skin to the breeze, where earlier in the week had been only scarf-swaddled faces and tucked chins. Though the skies remained swirled with gray, it felt remarkably light outside.
We had planned for a visit to the Frick Collection, but the line of people waiting to enter the building snaked around the corner and down Fifth Avenue, a sea of umbrellas practically ground to a standstill. So we instead spent a significant chunk of our afternoon meandering through the park’s rain-soaked trails, discussing the winter break we are leaving behind soon as well as the semester that gapes ahead of us. It was one of those conversations that thaws you, melts those tightly clumped bits of frustration you have been carrying around like the snow that remains on the street corners in the city until the end of March. A conversation that felt like an unburdening and an exhalation.
In short, a conversation remarkably like the weather.
Happy Sunday, everyone.