A Trail of Footprints in the Snow

Ever since I was a child, I have been a people watcher. It never fails to fascinate me how so many people can exist, all of them with unique lives and personalities.

It’s a habit that has followed me through adulthood. When I have free time, I go to Jill’s Coffee (the cafe down the road), buy a large vanilla coffee (one creamer, two sugars), and sit by the window staring at passersby.

Today the first person I notice is Ms. Miller. Her red coat is wrapped around her tightly, protecting her from the winter snow. She’s speaking rapidly into her phone as she walks briskly through the street, most likely talking to her lawyer about finalising her divorce. She moved into the apartment under me a few days ago, wanting to put physical distance between her and her soon-to-be ex-husband. Sometimes, I hear her cry at night.

When I hear her sobs, I want to go down there and ask if she needs a friend. But that’s not how things work in New York. It’s a big city full of people who never talk. I don’t think she would take kindly to me barging into her life.

Ms. Miller walks out of view, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow.

My eyes wander until they land on Joan. She’s waiting at the bus stop in a coat too thin for the freezing air. She probably can’t afford anything better. Barely eighteen and already on her own. I don’t know why she left her parents. I don’t know if she even has parents. I do know that she’s young and alone, working two jobs just to keep herself on her feet.

I know she’s struggling. Most kids do, trying to make it on their own in a busy city. A big part of me wants to give her a hug and a warm meal. Maybe even a place to stay, if only for a few months. I feel like she could use the friendship. But I don’t think she would accept my offer. Kids like her are stubborn, they want to make it big without help.

Joan’s bus pulls up, and she hops on, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow.

I search for another person to watch, finding Brian. He has just left Jill’s Coffee, his shift having finished, and is walking home. At least, I assume he’s walking home; as far as I know, he has nowhere else to go. He’s a loner, and doesn’t seem to leave his house for anything other than work. I wonder why he spends so much time there. He lives alone, so it can’t be to spend time with family. He must be so lonely.

I often consider striking up a conversation with him while he works. Give him a chance to talk with someone, even if only for a few minutes. Human interaction is so vital to happiness, and yet I’ve never seen him talk with anyone beyond taking their orders. Talking to him could be a nice gesture. But he always seems so busy, and I don’t want to interfere with his work.

Brian walks until I can’t see him anymore, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow.

Mr. Miller comes into view next. He’s handsome--or he would be, if he weren’t so unapproachable. His face holds a permanent frown, and his body language is closed off. The last time I saw him happy was about a year ago, before his wife died and his kids moved out. Back then, he was outgoing and friendly. He would wear colorful outfits and warm smiles, something that made him welcoming. Now, widowed and without his kids, you can usually find him wrapped in a black trenchcoat and keeping his head down. He’s the perfect image of someone who doesn’t want to be bothered.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should try to talk to him. Try to make him smile like he used too. Offer him companionship. It wouldn’t replace the people he had lost, but maybe it would give him some sense of solace. Then again, what do I know? I’ve never lost a lover or kids. I’ve never had a lover or kids to lose. How could I begin to understand how to help him?

Mr. Miller walks until he’s no longer in my sight, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow.

Ms. Burton is the next person I see. She’s a classic old lady, wrapped in pastel sweaters and passing out candy to any child she sees. She comes into Jill’s Coffee to use the free wifi and call her grandchildren, like she always does. She always starts the conversation so hopeful, telling them that they should come and visit, that she just made cookies for them. The call always ends with her face falling as they decline the offer. She tells them that it’s alright, she understands. Maybe next time. Still, she can’t hide the sadness on her face.

A part of me wants to ask if I can try her cookies. Truthfully, I don’t even like cookies, but I still want to help her feel less alone. I’m a little old to be her grandchild, but maybe that wouldn’t matter. She would probably smile, eager to share her baking with someone, and drag me to her home. But, then again, maybe it’s more likely that she would be freaked out at a stranger asking to taste her cookies. It’s not worth the risk.

Ms. Burton leaves Jill’s Coffee, walking down the street until she’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow. 

I go to take a sip of my coffee, only to find that there’s none left. I stare at the bottom of my cup for a long time, before finally standing up and leaving the coffee shop.

As I walk home, I think of Ms. Miller and Joan and Brian and Mr. Wallace and Ms. Burton. I wonder how such a big city can be full of so many lonely people.

But, then again, maybe I’m just projecting.

I arrive at my apartment, slipping silently into the lobby, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the snow.