Read More: A brief Q&A with Liz Rosen
There is an unexpected delay on the T because of the snow. There is grumbling among the passengers. There is a lonely street you have to turn down to get to the job you hate. There is ice on the sidewalk that you nearly slip on. There is a curse you swallow to keep the winter wind from sliding down your throat and freezing you from the inside out.
There are ideas bigger than you are. There are endings you would never dream of, and there are thoughts you would never dare say aloud.
There is something you said to your boyfriend last night that you shouldn’t have. There is the way he kept his face turned away from you this morning when you went to kiss him goodbye. There is shame in the slant of your shoulders when you push your hands deep into your pockets and go out the door into the cold.
There are a million reasons why you are luckier than most.
There is this warm coat you are wearing, and the warm coffee you buy as a talisman of protection against the winter gods. There is a job, a home, a boy who loves you. There is the bank account you are careful not to overdraw.
But there are feelings of want you cannot articulate. There are long tangles of thought that end in frustration. There are words you reproach yourself with. There are things you will never understand. There are things you will always get wrong.
There is a man in a blue knit cap walking in your direction this morning. There is the way he struggles not to be pushed forward by the wind. There is the dirty parka that seems to collapse inward when he tucks his bare hands under his arms. There is personal dishevelment that makes you think he probably slept on one of the street grates where hot air is ventilated from civic buildings. There is the ongoing muttering to himself. There is the guilty unease that makes you cross the street away from him.
There are things you want that you tell no one about. There are fears you keep to yourself. There are moments of dissatisfaction so deep you suspect you must be broken inside.
There is a gust of wind so bitter you lower your head to butt your way through. There is a red mitten you spot in the gutter on the far side of the street. There is the moment when you look up, eyes watering, and see the man in the cap walk past a different glove, further down the sidewalk. There is a question you ask yourself, having seen the man’s hands, chapped red with cold.
There are times when you see a man with bare hands in this weather and your own are protected with wool gloves, however itchy. There are moments when respite occupies you like a sudden drop in temperature, and you forget the rest about meaning and purpose and future gradations of happiness.
There is the man’s long-limbed saunter down the street, his pause when he sees the red mitten in the gutter and leans to pick it up. There is a moment he weighs it in his hand. There is relief when he turns back for the other glove.
There are doubts you wish you’d never bothered to entertain, time you wish you’d never given over to worry. There are days when even the white-out of a Boston winter can’t contain a spark of color: a red mitten, a blue knit cap, a black glove.
There is the man, placing the red mitten next to the black glove on the sidewalk. There is the way he turns, leaving them behind for someone else. There is the startling contrast of the one mitten, the one glove against the snow, against each other.
There are deeds so rare and unexpected they make you pause on a cold New England street. There are moments that unravel like a loose woolen thread pulled free to reveal the stuff of a whole other thing, moments so still that you can hear the notched edges of snowflakes click together into a greater entirety.
There are, you realize, chances you could take. There is the chance you might take one.
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Liz Rosen is a former Nickelodeon Television writer and a current short story writer whose stories have appeared in numerous journals and podcasts. She has also been the recipient of several writing residencies, the most recent of which she left early after finding (and stepping on) the second snake in her cabin. That she did not leave after the first snake is a measure of her commitment.
Read More: A brief Q&A with Liz Rosen