Ashley Elizabeth Miller

5:05 p.m. Manhattan.

I strode down Columbus Avenue wrapped in a parka and a blue wool scarf pulled high above my nose. My sniffling sinuses appreciated the effort. 

I eyed my fellow neighbors daring to go about their days in 21-degree weather. My pace hastened as I waddled down the brownstone-lined block behind my building. The lofty structures stunt the sun’s rays, resulting in a particularly brisk shaded saunter to Central Park West. AHH. But finally, reaching the sunlight surrounding Central Park is like an encounter with heaven.

I strolled around the park for an hour, entering at 72nd Street around 2:00 p.m. I passed a few cabbies out in the front circle and walked by a woman singing “Don’t Let Me Down” to a crowd of two or three; whereas usually, a crowd of 30 would have their iPhones out filming the interchanging, but ever present John Lennon performer at the benches behind the entrance. 

Down by Azalea Pond, tourists tested their luck on the frozen, snow-covered ice. But a man soon came to yell: “GET OFF THE ICE!” On the other side, by Chamber’s Landing, a couple smiled as they stepped onto the inch-thick frozen pond, waving at the geese swimming in sections where the ice had broken. I did not yell. I watched and wondered.