The windows of the corner store that we pass by on the way to the subway station were changed once. It had been Halloween for at least four years, since we moved into the neighborhood. Two years ago it became Christmas and has remained so since.

The window is festooned with trees, green ones and silver ones, ceramic and paper. Garish stars and pious angels look down from the tops of each. Though it’s July now, multicolored lights twinkle and boxes wrapped in festive paper litter the floor of the display, nutcracker men in military formation watch over all. A sign with a neon countdown flashes, “— shopping days till.” Another displays “Holiday Greetings” in red and green neon. Tinsel garlands wind through it all.

Outside on the street, junkies bluster and nod, trade meds and illegals. One sleeper has no shoes. Near him, a woman in a tee-shirt that says “Florida Sunshine” dances with her walker to a slow rhythm that only she can hear. Two men discuss Medicaid strategies with a woman who is bent over a shopping cart, staring at the ground. Someone with bright orange hair and grey roots fumbles a tinfoil ball. A one-legged man naps in his wheelchair while his friend murmurs in his ear. It might be a song or a prayer, but the voice is an insincere rasp, more likely a hustle.

The Kush man hawks his wears.

Behind them a women totters next to the window and puts a skeletal hand on it to steady herself. The holiday lights animate cheap rings on four of her fingers. The woman looks in the window and smiles—at the trees? Or her own shabby reflection? Whatever it is that pleases her, puts her to sleep on the spot. The glass obstructs genuine connection, possible meddling, but serves to hold her up.

The display outside the window moves in slow motion, ignoring people with purpose who hurry past to the subway entrance.

Above it all, a sign on the building reads “Two Dollar $tore,” the D slightly askew.