it was snowing lightly
in a soft breeze,
tiny white flakes hitting the ground
which was dry from the sun and wind
of yesterday, or perhaps last week.
I watched a snowflake fall
until it reached the grey of the sidewalk
(matching the terminal grey of the sky)
and disappeared.
it was still bright out
despite the world of colorlessness,
and I squinted as I walked,
my shoes clacking against the cement.
I walked by an old homeless man
in a thin grey coat and hat.
I saw him there yesterday, too.
he’s still waiting for the bus
that will never come.
I turned into the too small lobby
of her building.
the paint was peeling
and the floors were dirty
just like always.
an empty bottle had been tipped over
on the filth-encrusted stairs.
the label had been peeled away,
but no doubt it once contained liquor
so cheap it probably had more turpentine
than alcohol.
I walked slowly up three flights
to another tiny, ill-lit hallway.
I turned to the left
as I’d done a thousand times before.
the numbers read 36, but I knew
that the 9 had merely fallen half around.
it was open
and through it I heard "moonlight sonata" end
and then begin again
as it had probably done a hundred times, already.
I stood a while without entering
just listening.
I knew what had happened,
I knew what I was going to find,
I knew better, perhaps, than anyone should,
but when I walked through the doorway
and saw her on the softly carpeted floor
I still couldn’t keep from crying.
moonlight sonata ended
and began again.

09/23/2001

Posted on 09/23/2001
Copyright © 2025 Gary Hoffmann