11/28/24

    When I looked out the window it had started to snow. 

    I caught the train perfectly on time despite running into heavy traffic from the redirected routes of the parade. In tow, my Balenciaga weekender and I had worn the thin Burberry trench coat out of the house even though I knew it was my worst rain jacket and that it wouldn’t serve me in the cold Upstate. I draped a sweater over my head as I stepped out into the rain and hailed a cab to Penn Station. I muted the blaring TV screen but watched as the taxi news displayed the great deluge coming down on parade-goers gathering in Midtown.

    The train passengers had thinned and I no longer had a seat mate when we pulled into Albany. I got out to stretch and to feel the cold air. The feathery pieces floating down had excited everyone on the train car. Taking photos, faces beaming. I went into the station to buy a coffee and stood on the tracks for a brief moment taking a scalding hot sip and exhaling to see a plume of breath before going back onto the train to get warm.

    When was the last time it snowed in NYC? I started feeling bad for the people back in the city. I've gotten so tired of the way rain in New York pours incessantly. It had been such a beautiful day out yesterday and now, although this is a holiday best served inside, a wet and grey mood doesn’t foster a cheery attitude. At least I’ll have snow for Thanksgiving.

    As we road on, the flurry intensified. The further north we went the more it piled up in the wooded areas around the tracks. The view out of the window grew brighter and brighter. I closed my eyes and let myself doze off. I still had a few hours to ride after all.

    I was standing in the living room watching a never-ending snow fall through the large picture window. It looked like static on a TV screen. The house was so quiet. Everyone else was fast asleep. When I was younger I used to do this during my bouts of insomnia—aimlessly and silently walking around the house.

    There's a tree in the corner. An imperceptible sound is coming from the multicolored Christmas lights that adorned it. They danced in all sorts of patterns. With every change I swore I could hear a click: click, change, click, change. But there was no sound. There's a cat snoozing peacefully underneath the tree, hidden behind the wrapped gifts, bunched in the red velvet skirt. I crouched to the ground to look at them. I could reach out and pet them but I didn't. The silence had become deafening, my ears felt full. I stood back up, looked out the window, and continued watching the static on the screen.

    One of my headphones had fallen out. I was awake now. There was still an hour to go.

2:45 pm

    We slid a bit driving down the winding road leading to the lake house. The heated seat finally warming my body. Just the few steps from the train platform to the car in the parking lot chilled me to the bone. 

    Turning the wooden knob of the main house’s front door and stepping into the living room, I was met with B and L who were cuddled together on one of the antique loveseats. Uncle M was curled up in front of the fire on the Afghan rug upon the floor. They were all reading—being so perfectly still I could have sat and painted their portraits. I shook off the light dusting of snow that had fallen on my sweater and gave a hug to aunt M who had come out of the kitchen to greet me. I said nothing more as I joined them in their silence, picking the spot next to uncle M on the rug. This was a much more relaxed atmosphere for a Thanksgiving day than I had expected. Aunt M had been doing most of the cooking and by the time I arrived it was nearly complete.

8:00 pm

    Our assembly of friends and family found ourselves back in the living room. Digesting our feast and sipping on Manhattans. The room filled with the warmth of a freshly lit fire. Aunt L stood before us to read aloud from the family patriarchs diary—an entry from his time in the war. His memory of this place, this house we were all gathered in and the land around us, gave way to a most beautiful vision. A man longing to return, finding illusory comfort in a winter solitude.

    Her voice rang, reverberating in my tipsy head. With every word, I saw myself living them: alone at the lake in the dead of winter, snow blanketing every inch of land, the distinct shape of the fireplace’s mantel, a carnivorous bachelors meal enjoyed at the helm of the table, the solitary conquest of a snow-covered mountain, hiking to look out over the frozen lake, envisioning the great battle of Fort Ticonderoga being fought in the distance.

    When she finished we all briefly sat there in lulled silence.

    As I stepped out into the cold night, walking alone to our abode, I looked back at the main house, aglow with tender light. The scent of smoke filling the air. The lake in the backdrop was a chilling pitch black. The sight of it sent ice through my veins. In the summer, the water becomes as warm as a bath and in the stillness of the night it bears a calming glossy surface. The winter brings rough waters. I wouldn’t dare go down to the dock.

    As I laid down to rest, drifting off to sleep, a vision appeared: The snow had stopped falling. The only thing I heard was my heavy breath and the crunching of my footsteps on fresh powder. Steeper and steeper. The air was sharp. I reached out to grab the branches of dormant trees, pulling myself forward. I reached the top and looked out over a frozen lake. Down below, there was a house. I could see into the living room. The lights on the tree were still changing. I was waving from the window.