Between Living and Traveling

Brooklyn mornings are a quiet freeze. The cold seeps through the brick walls while pale light softens the room. The sound of boiling water. Steam rising from a mug. A blanket draped over my shoulders—and the tension in the air eases, just a bit. It’s that brief moment of calm before the city begins to stir.

On weekends, I head to Prospect Park with a friend. The crunch of our steps on the snow-dusted grass marks the rhythm of winter. As I pull the blanket over my knees, warmth unfolds from within. Our breath turns to mist, our conversation drifting in and out. Yet, under the cold sky, our laughter feels like home.

At night, we load the car and drive beyond the city limits. Into the frozen forest air, beneath a canopy of stars. When the engine stops, the world goes silent. Wrapped in my blanket, my palms begin to find their warmth again.

At home, or somewhere along the road. As a blanket, or as a sleeping bag. It takes in the midwinter chill and kindles a small flame deep within. That is the quiet power of this single piece.