When the snow stops falling, and the air is alone again, the city is brand new.

Our footsteps are alone. Let’s pretend we are the last people on Earth.

No, let’s pretend we are the first people on Earth, it’s less depressing, and it seems more like we are starting the party instead of ending it. It also wouldn’t make any sense that the last party on Earth would be in Boston.

If we were the last people on Earth, it would imply that we had somehow survived the others.

Not only do I lack confidence in our cunning to surpass the rest of the human race, but if that were the case, like I said before, we definitely wouldn’t be in Boston right now. So, it’s only logical that we are the first people on Earth and don’t know any better, because we can’t be the last people on Earth if we don’t know best.

I’m going to build us an igloo in the middle of Boston Common.

I’ve always wanted to have a huge backyard that morphs into my equally huge front yard, so that I simply have “a yard” around my house. Plus, nobody ever mentions their left yard or their right yard, and that doesn’t any make sense if you’re going to identify a front and a back. I guess it kind of makes sense, if the side yards are proportionally inferior to the front and back yards. Whatever, who cares.

Our igloo will be circular. It will be circular with no back, front, or sides, we will live by North, South, East, and West, with windows that take turns in the light depending on the location of the sun. A compass – nay – a sundial made of ice. It’s a lot of pressure to live in a giant clock, but realistically we can’t be late to anything if we are the only humans alive. Trust me, it will look cool once the windows are there.

Unfortunately, we will be freezing cold all of the time, because our windows won’t be windows, they will be holes in the wall through which the color of the hour will leak.

It’s 5 pm and everything is pink. We can go out and make snow angels in the sunset, and then we can walk to Deluca’s Market and stare at the bananas in the window for a couple of minutes. We can talk about anything we want, like what if all the Christmas lights are imprisoned fireflies, and what if we set them all free?

They should really find a way to genetically alter fireflies to withstand the winter. It would be nice with all the snow. We should keep some fireflies in our igloo so we can see each other’s faces when we smile in the dark, not because we wouldn’t otherwise know about the smiles in the dark, but because it’s nice to see someone smile.

It’s 7 pm, and it’s snowing again. Rotting trash haunts the sidewalks, hidden beneath reflections of streetlights and dusk in the snow. It never dies, it just sleeps, like Furby, but silent. Actually, if it’s rotting, it’s already dead, and it’s more of a decay than a slumber. It’s not a corpse asleep, but a corpse’s wake, not awake, but a wake.

Somebody’s dad shovels last week’s Wall Street Journal and some cigarette butts out of the snow. Open casket.

originally posted here