Winter Walk

While walking through Washington Square Park the day after a three-inch snowfall I crunch on New York’s famous sediment filled slush with the soles of my plastic boots. It makes a pleasing sound, like biting into a slightly melted popsicle. I walk towards good little piles of snow and step on them right in the middle, with purpose. I’m making my way towards my parents apartment on West 3rd. I live there, but I feel as if I am too old now to call it my home. There’s a stigma when college graduates still live with their parents. One must be independent, they say. It’s just another vagary to live by, another rule to guide you through the trenches. One must be independent, yes, yes, yes. I’ll look for apartments tomorrow. I haven’t looked up from the ground for a long time, so I do, and the change of scenery is refreshing: the sun is waning behind thick clouds and the silhouette of tall, bare oak trees against the grey sky is nice. In front of me is an old man sitting on a bench. He fits with the weather: grey face, black clothes. He pouts his lips at me.