Sometimes the hope for the weekend seems just around a corner you’ll never turn. Likewise, the weather in New York has been bumpy, up and down, leaving everyone without a clue to go on.

When I first woke up this morning, the sun shone brightly through my bedroom window, illuminating the entire room, and, with it, my big-ass weekend plans. Which involve doing nothing, really. Something I’m very much looking forward to, as well.

In the other room, reading over the morning’s news, gathering a few of today’s stories, I naturally read more and more about the Madrid attacks. Without my noticing, the room seemed to darken; a thick shadow sucked the light from every window. I looked outside and noted the cold bluster of last-gasp winter air that appeared to be moving, swiftly, through the area.

And I thought of Madrid. And I thought about my plans for the weekend. And I thought about how lots of people make plans for the weekend. And look forward to the good weather, hope for it, in fact.

I worked my way into the city through crowds of passengers on the subway, many of us thinking about probably the same one thing, about how it could never happen here and about how we don’t really believe that anymore. And I fought the winter blast in lower Manhattan until I reached my building. And now, with the sun cracking out of nowhere again, the sun shining on my face, I look outside a see a lone white bird gliding past my windows.

But then I keep looking, and realize it’s just a plastic bag, caught in the wind.