New York City mornings can be the most beautiful in the world. The sun reflects off the metal and the glass, at first making shadows line the alleys, and then making them recede back into dark and distant corners. The shadows are not alone today. A lone spirit walks along, slow, gradually growing larger. Had I known the exact height of the awning under which she walked, perhaps I could’ve told you her height. Hair sprawled across her shoulders, chestnut and gold under the little beams of light. From a distance she appeared like a woman I once knew. She had almost become my mother. I recall her smiling while she talked about roasting garlic, her knobby knuckles twisting and bending as she shucked off the thin white skins, light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. This girl is younger; probably in her early twenties. The rainbow wool of her hat is sparkling in the sun, reflecting the rainbow confetti beneath her feet. She seems so happy, despite the cold and empty streets. I imagine it seems foreign to her now, in comparison to how it was last night. New Year’s Eve is the craziest night for this city. Now all that remains is cigarette butts, food wrappers, and trampled garbage. Despite the state of the pavement beneath her, she just floats along, smiling up at the thin strip of marbled sherbet sky between the buildings as small bits of paper swirl around her with the breeze. Like that scene in Sleeping Beauty, where Aurora dances through the forest, the birds and animals listening to her sing and following her. This girl attracts color. She is beautiful, and it’s as though the world wants to make itself beautiful so that she can be happy, confetti and paper dancing around her. Some people are inspired, and some people are inspiration. I should write that down. A street sweeper truck grinds past, taking the colors away. The girl is gone. The street is cold and empty once again.