Outside my office window, two floors below on the sidewalk by the subway station, a partially blind man, limping on his right leg, is asking for cigarettes from passers-by. No one gives him one; most pretend they do not see him. Instead, he picks up discarded butts, some still lit because they were thrown in a hurry by people rushing downstairs to the Metro. To catch their trains, to make it to their meetings, I suppose. But today I don't have any meetings. I'm just staring out the window, grateful for this luxury. There is much to be grateful for, and much more to be hopeful about. So easy, is it not, to realize, only afterwards, that it really was magic while it lasted? Or is it just in hindsight that it now appears magical? Is it the missing that I miss? But this aching is real. How do I know that I will not look back at THIS moment and miss it so, just like I miss that which I seem to have let slip right through my fingers? You think perhaps that I'll look back on this moment and miss my office-by-the-window? In that case, let me walk down and hand him a smoke.