As I cycle across West End Avenue, the moon dangles above like a milky ornament in the night sky. The trees along the street are drooping and silvery with heavy ice. Far down below is the Hudson River. My tires slide, as I skid through a wet spot, but I right myself and lock my bike, my hands already numb in front of Auntie Flora’s place.
The regular doorman is back in place, which is a good sign. The fat black man must have been a temp. He smiles at me, one hand waving and the other cradling a steaming mug with a snowflake on the front. His head droops, and I think of the frayed Santa ornament on my advent tree. This doorman and I have never said a word to one another.
“You’re such a good boy to visit her,” he says, slurring as I enter the lobby. “It’s just too bad.”
He doesn’t look
