The first snowfall

in Brooklyn.

Blanketing the parked cars,

the few blades of grass,

and the trash,

I watched as

the snow whispered

to the ugly city streets:

“You, too, can be beautiful.”

Today, as the snow fell outside,

I watched a repairman

take his bad day out on those he was meant to service,

and I thought,

What would it take for this to be beautiful?

How does one level the playing field

of the human species,

as the undercurrents of animosity grow?

Why is this not beautiful?

What kind of pain grew in this man’s heart,

shaping the new way he breathed,

seeing everyone but himself as the enemy?

How, how do I make this better,

how do I lift the cloak of ugly and reveal beauty?

Because there is no question that it is there.

Because it’s always there.

My one-year-old nephew saw beauty

in the wet snowfall as it landed

on my arms

and his eyelashes,

as he giggled

at the novelty of it.

As he laughed,

I found beauty too,

in the heavy, wet, slush

that surrounded me,

remembering my first snowfalls,

before I realized the snow was something

that could ruin someone’s day

or cause an accident

or delay travel plans.

I was born the day before a snowstorm

that left thousands without power.

Today,

I felt the first scratch of a story fall into line in my mind,

about a man that was a repairman,

and what it means to find beauty

in bitter words and angry days,

and about how much more everything is then it seems.

Maybe one day I’ll write it.

I’m not sure it’s time just yet.

Because he was just a repairman,

and I’m

not

a therapist

just yet.

But when I am,

and I’m tasked with finding beauty

in pain, and ugly, and muddy tracks,

perhaps I’ll look at the snow

to remember

that beauty can be found

even on the city streets

that are

filled with old

thanksgiving

trash.

 

28/52.