Thanksgiving still hung in the crisp cold air. Voices escaped from behind closed doors, chimneys puffed into the night sky. Macaroni and cheese, yams, something a little burnt—stuffing maybe. The aromas struck his nose as familiar, minus the burnt tinge affectingthe air. A warm feeling flooded his soul as he thought of the joy each home must have been filled with the day prior. He wondered if each dwelling was packed tight like sardines.
His footsteps fell hard on cold concrete—it felt different than in the summer. Not that it was any softer, but maybe, slightly quieter. A few other unfamiliar faces were out milling about; he was just glad to be out on this crisp night, even if he was only walking to the supermarket down the street. Hands shoved in coat pockets, keenly alert of all around him, he took in the beauty of the moon, her fullness and intensity.