MELANCHOLY

ALLISON KRICKER

There is nothing more terribly beautiful than the snow stricken streets of New York City. Beneath a greying evening sky, and between tall buildings of steel, are big flakes of swirling snow that drift and lightly cover every street lamp, branch, shoulder and patch of pavement untouched

by moving feet. Patrick Sole, a man without a home, is slumped, in wet, grey slush, against a brick wall. He does not twitch, he does not tremble. And if white begins to blanket his tattered coat, and if his frostnipped fingers begin to numb; well, he does not stir. How long he has sat there, he does not know, for he looks and feels as white as a ghost. With an icy puff of breath, Patrick blinks slowly, blankly observing the blur of faces before him. As the evening sky blackens, the bustle of the street grows noisier and is lit vividly by street lamps, lights, cars and electronic billboards. It is at that moment Patrick wonders: how can one be so

lonely in a city with over nineteen million souls? Patrick is so lost in melancholy that he does not notice a

wet nose nudge his gloved hand. A quiet whimper draws his attention from the unceasing uproar to the black mass shifting beside him. It’s a dog, he realises, as he sees its droopy ears and dirty coat. “Hey, boy…” Patrick croaks. His voice feels foreign, his words rough, his tongue thick and heavy yet thawing with each movement in his mouth. “…Y’just like me, ain’t ya’?” Once more, the dog whimpers, and with another nudge, tries to nestle into Patrick’s side. Lifting his arm, Patrick lets the dog snuggle in closer and plop itself down with a thump. The dog, its head now resting on its large forepaws, gazes out into the bustling night with its almond-shaped eyes. Although the animal’s fur is caked in dirt and wet snow, it provides Patrick with a warmth so tender that it melts his

frozen heart. For once, he decides to be selfish, stealing the radiating warmth with his fingertips as he gently pats the dog’s neck. That earns him a contented sigh from the animal, which then cranes its neck to lick his hand, revealing a collar that reads Buddy. Giving a wry smile, Patrick says: “Oh my… We can’t have you lost, can we? No... Not lost like me. That’s not good …not good, indeed...” With a few cracks and creaking bones, Patrick unbends his bent body, sending flakes of snow falling from his narrow shoulders. At first the dog remains stone-still, only standing after Patrick whistles through the gaps in his gums. Together, they set off into the city’s chaos. “Hey! Watch it!” A random pedestrian hurrying along bumps shoulders with Patrick. They throw a cold glare before disappearing into the sea of bodies.

On the road are myriads of different coloured cars that slowly roll forward, releasing sharp honks of loud frustration. Those who are bold enough roll down their windows and swear at surrounding vehicles, including the yellow taxis that weave in and out of traffic, picking up rosy-cheeked pedestrians desperate to go wherever they may need. As Patrick wanders with the dog trotting along behind, he receives numerous disapproving frowns and several stolen glances. One man, who is leaning against a post, stares longer than necessary as

he takes a long drag from his cigarette. He exhales, releasing a toxic cloud of white that curls up into the air. Seeing this as an opportunity, Patrick says: “…Er, excuse me! Y-yes, you, sir. You see, Buddy here’s lost and I was just’a wanderin’ if you, by any chance, know this dog?” “…Hmph. No, sorry. Never seen that mutt before in my life.” The man takes another puff before dropping his cigarette on the ground, crushing its little light with the heel of his boot. He then turns and leaves, not giving a chance for further

interaction.

“Oh… ok…” mutters Patrick. Disappointment fills his face and sags his shoulders. Suddenly, he is all too aware of the shivers wracking his body, shaking him to the core and of the snow falling softly from above, coating his greying hair. Although his hope is as bleak as the snow, the presence of the animal beside him

reassures him that in a city this big, there must be at least one kind soul who can help. As such, Patrick wanders on, calling out ‘excuse me’ in the hope of gaining someone’s attention. And he does. Through his snow caked eyelashes Patrick sees a pretty woman

approach him from the crowd. She totters forward in her high heels and fur coat, displaying a look of pity before saying: “Oh, you poor, poor soul!” She then rummages through her purse. “Here, take this money. That’ll do you a meal and me a good deed.” “N-no, I- Do you know…” Before Patrick can get another word in, the lady shoves cash into his pocket. She then glances at the dog, scrunches up her nose and quickly leaves. Once more, Patrick feels the loneliness grow heavy in his heart as he sees people, but they not him. He sees many tug their coats closer to their bodies and blow warm air into cupped

gloves. He sees some speaking on their phones, walking beneath trees with bare branches clawing at the sky. He sees others inside buildings lined with shops and warm lights, enjoying the toasty air within and hot cups of coffee. And then there is Patrick, frozen in place, watching crowds dart by heedless of him, the dog, and his suffering. The heaviness in his heart continues to grow and grow, weighing him down and filling his chest. If his heart were to collapse under the weight, an avalanche of his pain would fall and crush the entire city. But it won’t; it never will, for his melancholy is buried deep beneath his bones and the blood that he bleeds.

Sensing his misery, the dog begins to whine and lick his battered boots. But Patrick can’t bring himself to go on, for his heart, like the city, has grown tired. Since the lights in surrounding shops are falling asleep - and fewer people now roam the streets, the crumpled paper in his pocket, Patrick

thinks, has become as worthless as him. At this moment,

Patrick’s hunger and pain feels as dull and prevalent as the perpetual snowflakes. And so, moving one leg, then the other, Patrick wanders through the cold, concrvete jungle with the dog in tow. They find a park bench somewhere in Central Park far from the chaos, away from the noise. The bench sits beneath a single lamp post. It is dusted in white just like every other surface

in the park. Ever so gently, Patrick brushes away the snow before lying down on his side, allowing Buddy to climb up. The pair snuggle, providing one another the only two things they can offer; warmth and company. Without twitching, without trembling, Patrick closes his eyes, welcoming an eternity of idleness.