The sky is grey today, but not the pretty grey, the mean one. It’s a grey that looks like maybe you smell bad, or that things will get a lot more fun after you fall asleep. There’s a curl to the lip there, a wrinkled nose.
I get it really.
The city has removed all of its decorations. The trees have been carried off, the lights and the menorahs tucked in basements and attics. The bustle of students is missing, but still on the horizon. They return on Monday. It’s amazing how one town can be so beholden to the energy of its visiting young.
Sometimes I think the city merely tolerates the rest of us, pines away for the influx of the iphones and the great thoughts and the too much beer and it’s not a Friday unless there are four live plays to choose between. But she lets us stay. At least there is that.
The road to Newtown, though, it’s different. The lights were still all up on Tuesday night. Trees are lit, swags of twinkling fairy lights garnish walkways. There are still single candles electronically lighting the windows of the older houses. The town Christmas tree steadily streams red and green and blue. From my friend’s front yard, I can see her neighbors’ illuminated peace sign–surely a labor of love and ingenuity in equal measure.
We don’t know what we’re fighting against here. We sit in the grey, with our dirty coats and one missing glove and expect the light to return next week because it probably will. We are weary, but expectant, eight and a half months pregnant in August heat.
On the road to Newtown, bright lights break the darkness. Maybe they are meant to catch the glimmer of movement, the outstretched paw of hope crawling back home.
If you give in to the meanest grey, though, you just might miss it.