I love the deep quiet of the dark. I start walking. Down the block and around the corner on the way to Broadway there is the pink window. Not a pink window, because that would imply that there are more of them. There are not. There are hardly any windows with any light of any color coming out of them. It's too early even for most New Yorkers to be up starting their day, grinding coffee beans, slicing the bagels bought yesterday, but I am not completely alone. I see a man hurrying towards the empty bus stop, a bag in one hand, two bags in the other. A couple strides by ---he, very serious, is walking purposefully four steps ahead, she, laughing at something and speaking in Russian to him.
Then the street is quiet again, darkened even as the dawn approaches. Black and browns with this one touch of pink color, just like you would see in a woods in early Spring, drabness all around and then suddenly, a crocus. Seeing a crocus always seems to cheer humans up. It's one of nature's signals that life is being renewed all the time, spirits get lifted just by stopping for a moment to drink in the sight of it. So it is with the pink window.
I'm guessing, of course, I haven't any way of knowing if this pink window means someone's day is starting or they've cried all night in it's brightness. Maybe someone turned on that light twenty years ago when the youngest went off to a job upstate and has never turned it off again while they waited, waited for her to return.
Maybe someone will see this little picture here and call up their grandmother and say "Mima, your curtains are on the Internet." and she'll say "Are you coming over soon?" And there will be a pause.
"Not this week, but yes, soon"
"That will be nice."
And there will be a pause.
I think there will be some cake, some tea and some spirits lifted while they sit at the little table next to the sink behind the pink window.
Yes.
I start again.
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