On Cold Nights

The space heater by my feet has got an orange light and it makes a tick, tick, tick sound every now and then. When I hear that sound and see that light, I feel warm again.

The tip of my nose is cold and when you touch the back of my neck, I get goosebumps. I eat soup and curl my body around the bowl, sucking life out of the steam.

I'm under down blankets and the feathers sometime poke out and stick in my hair. I'll pull one leg out from the warmth we've created and let the cold settle on me.

When it is cold and the moon is out, I look around the world and think, I belong here. But I may never come back.

Antifreeze

He looked at me and said, "tell me something I don't know about you."
So I told him about the time my cat died when I was eight.

The look in his eyes, the smell of his fur.
Cross-legged, enveloping him.
The antifreeze he'd been poisoned with, the neighbor kid who did it.
The first time I saw anything die: the air changed and my fingertips tingled.
The first time I understood there was cruelty in the world.
But kindness, too. Cross-legged, enveloping him.

He looked at me and said, "I've already heard that story."
But he hadn't. I'd only ever told him I was eight, the cat died, antifreeze.