Standing at the Blue Line stop, waiting for the train this morning, I was looking out across Damen. Theer was a steady snow going, and a few inches had collected along the tops of the railing. I looked over, and watched a guy gather some snow between his gloves and pack a snowball. For some reason, this made me incredibly happy, seeing someone acting in such a childish (read: carefree) manner.
He ended up not throwing the snowball, but just sort of crumbling it up in his hands. For a split second, I had this thought that I should have tried to make a snowball too. I should have said something to him, jokingly, and in a blur… we’d be suddenly throwing snowballs at one another. In a moment’s time, everyone else who was standing around in the cold would have joined in. Everyone standing around would shake the daily grumpiness of their mornings to participate in this wondrous, spontaneous snowball fight. They’d talk to their coworkers about it later over lunch, they’d tell their friends. It’d be a story they’d pass along to their children… the day the train station broke out into one big snowball fest.
I should have, but I didn’t.
Like everyone else, I kept my hands in my pockets. I stood around, waiting for the train. And when it arrived, and the doors opened up, I walked in like any other mature, responsible, grown adult.
I don’t know how i missed this post. it’s incisive and chilling. thank you, felix.