the color of lightning

This morning is wet, the rain falling in buckets. The sky is a bright gray, the color of lightning.

A pair of postal workers discusses politics over breakfast. A toddler waves to the nearby sparrows having a bagel feast. A man behind me scans his phone. It’s me and my newspaper, a Brazilian Dark Roast and a corn muffin this morning at Fairway.

On page 3 there’s a story about a tree. The image shows its stark naked skeleton, crooked branches brittle reaching skyward in pain. The color of its bark silvery black. The caption shares details about its death, this 600-year old iconic pillar from Bernards Township in NJ.

It reminds me of the Grinch tree that used to stand in front of my childhood house in Bensonhurst. It’s drooping branches hanging lifeless, its limbs in disrepair. Its roots tangled amid the underground wires and cables emitting who knows what kind of energy into the earth. An eyesore dying from the inside out.

The rain stops. People dash outside scurrying to their cars and the ferry, eager to make it to their next destination.

No one carries an umbrella.

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