Outside the French bakery, a line snakes in a whorl toward East 7th Street. I am alone in my bedroom on the 3rd floor watching the masked patrons in backpacks and hoodies, inching forward slowly like caterpillars. The sun is bright today casting long frightening shadows on the sidewalks. The cars whizz by and honk every few seconds like a metronome. From my computer, as I type this, the virtuoso violin of Paganini reverberates. I feel a sense of peace taking this all in with my senses.

I consider the idea of gratefulness as I sit here. I feel very fortunate at this moment. I feel grateful for my senses, that I can hum along with Paganini as I write, that I can feel my fingertips hitting the keyboard in a symphony of taps, that I can see the snaking line across the street and watch the Pin Oak tree in front of my window drift from side to side at the shaking of the wind. I wonder why I can’t always feel this way.