The Joy of a Breeze at Night

There’s something about a nice breeze that makes me feel so wholly alive and present. Normally, when the air is still, it is so easily forgotten in spite of the life-sustaining oxygen it freely gives. But when those trillions of air molecules press against the skin’s sensory receptors, it has its way of reminding you of its omnipresence, even if just for a second.

And, for some reason, the breeze at night is just particularly lovely.

Perhaps this joy is one of imagination. The window behind my apartment’s kitchen sink likes to send a wisp of fresh nighttime air into my face. A few nights ago, the wind directed my gaze to a palmish sort of tree outside the apartment directly facing the window, and briefly I could’ve sworn I was actually in some far-off tropical destination. If only.

Perhaps this joy is one of connectedness. Tonight the window’s breeze reminded me of some unappreciated feeling of belonging in this city. When I first came to New York, I was naïvely ignorant of my fear of the unfamiliar, and I didn’t understand why I ever chose to go somewhere any farther than an hour from home. The breeze, somehow, reminded me that I had made my impression on the city ever so slightly, and that I was, in fact, a part of it all.

Perhaps this joy if one of something else. Next time I’m at the window, I’ll wait for the breeze, and see if it comes up with anything else in need of appreciation.