Sidewalk

     The sweet smell of a hot New York sidewalk knows no peer. While the suburbs have freshly cut grass and D.C. enjoys blooming cherry blossoms, the scent of warm asphalt is the city’s way of indicating the new season. After months of desolation, it reappears like a distant friend, the same.

     Suddenly I begin to notice displays of skin under the florescent lights of the subway. They remind me, to my surprise, that people have bodies comprised of more than weathered hands and frustrated faces. For the first time in a long time I see elbows, calves, and midsections. I tilt my head.

     They say summer bodies are made in the winter, but mine tends to just show up. The warmth of the beach is matched by a cool personal disassociation from my less-than-ideal figure. But thankfully, like a meal of cafeteria pizza with canned peaches, each year I become more comfortable with the mediocrity I am working with.

     In the meantime, I am left to treasure these last few days of brisk air, slipping on my black sweaters with ease and resting my hands in jackets with generous pocket space. The sweet spot is now.

     Before long it will be summer and I will be back on the sidewalk, sweating. I'll pass by a steaming pile of trash, holding my breath.