November was the death of us.

It would come with the mist of rain,
gray mottled skies and the chill of
winter digging into old bones. We
never wore mittens back then.

Never learned to throw a snowball,
never made a snow angel, nor
gave birth to a snowman.

We only knew of ice; the world
outside our glass house.

At night we would be ushered into the cold.
Play, she would tell us. Dinner will be ready soon.
But we both knew what that meant.

The window would close with a lengthy sigh,
the drapes as wide and deep as the night.
But you could still hear the yelling, the slaps,
the sound of a heavy fist making contact with bone.

And all the while no snowflakes fell, no icicles
chimed in the moaning November wind,
and the cat would sit at the door
meowing for his dinner.

11/18/2010

Author's Note: I always said when I grew up I'd move somewhere it snowed. I did.

Posted on 11/18/2010
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