White Feather Wings: Part II, chapter 9 from The Edge of the World (a novel in progress)

I spent Christmas eve at home, working with the dogs. On Christmas day I drove into town. After parking near Union Square, I walked around for a few hours. Up Broadway into the hundreds and back again. As I'd expected things were quiet. People were either inside, celebrating Christmas with their families, or else had left town for the holiday—which was what Bino had done. With the streets nearly deserted, I felt as if the entire town were mine. So while other people may have had their families and their Christmas gifts, I had this stretch of land, with all its avenues and skyscrapers. And standing on the ground, looking up to the pinnacles of all the buildings as I approached Times Square, I sensed that somehow I was above it all, gliding like some exotic bird—or a flying reptile perhaps—over a newly dead civilization's abandoned shrines and monuments.

The following day things were back to normal. The streets were filled with people going to stores to exchange or return their gifts or running errands they couldn't run on Christmas because most places had been closed. Suddenly I found myself feeling nostalgic—not for days long gone but for the day that had just passed. But I knew that Christmas would come again in another year, and I hoped that soon the day would come when everyday was like Christmas.