The First Time

All time stops, and you wonder “how did this happen?”
Everything you hear sounds hollow, as if the world is now being spoken through a glass bottle. You notice the architecture hovering above for the first time. Windows that reflect so well, they look like a continuation of the sky. And since looking at the sky never fits into your schedule of things-to-do, this glass is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen since you were six.

****

December weekends with you and Daddy playing in the snow, while it was falling, was a tradition. Mommy stayed inside. “My hands get too cold, sweetie,” she would say. “But you go and have fun with your father.” And after a few minutes of begging her to come, too, you did. Throwing snowballs at daddy was hard with your mittens, but he dove into them and fell down, acting as if they had just come out of a cannon. But he would get you back. Even if you thought you’d run a thousand feet away, his snowballs reached you. Exploding somewhere on your snowsuit.

Most times you would gain enough courage to charge at him with a snowball in each mitten, usually missing with one of them. Then both of you ended up on your backs making snow angels, and Daddy promised that your snow angel would, someday, be as big as his. Laughing and looking up at the sky, you thought about what the clouds looked like. Sometimes, you thought you saw people, and other times you saw shapes or cartoon characters.

Winter afternoon don’t happen that way anymore. There are no 3-step porches to jump from and no century-old trees to hide behind. The only oak you see is the desk in your office and on the dash in your $60,000 sedan. Executive Vice Presidents of national banks live that life. They must. Express elevators and fine print. Conference calls and coffee breaks. It’s what you do best.

Every four years or so, you decide you need a break from that. So you pack your laptop and cell phone, and head toward an island somewhere. You lie on the beach, ignore the translucent ocean water, and type away. Memos that must be sent the instant you get back. Occasionally, even an email to a friend. Whatever it is, you can’t escape where you just left, so you head home early.
“How was your vacation?”
“Great. It felt so good to get a break from this place.”

Liar. This is what you now call home. The cold streets of Manhattan are your playground, and Fifth Avenue is your backyard. And to make up for the couple vacation days you dropped, you decide to do a little shopping on a Sunday. Bergdorf Goodman sounds good, but only because Tiffany’s and Burberry is right across the street.

Holding your head high, and feeling good about the matching cashmere scarf and gloves that were on sale, you don’t notice the patch of ice on the ground.

…The glass never looked so beautiful.