Hot Chocolate
On the porch on a cold day in November, the only warmth in the world is in the white mug I hold with burning palms. The early winter wind finds its way through the gaps between my jacket and body. I curl my legs up to my chest, sinking deeper into the navy blue pillows that overwhelm the small, white rocking chair. I raise my mug to my mouth to take a small sip, but the hot chocolate fire reaches the edge of the cup too fast. The fire burns my mouth and throat without mercy. I abruptly let out a breath of white steam, confirming the winter’s brutal arrival. I sit on the porch for an everlasting hour, allowing my cheeks to flush and my hands to numb in the cold. The porch is bare, just as the world has emptied. The world has rid itself of the sun’s shine and the moon’s light. The world seems forever gray as a disease arrives unannounced with mystique and power. The crown of death saunters into a place where he does not belong, making the world feel isolated. But now, on my island of winter oasis, I am thankful for my hot chocolate.
Eliza Binstock
46
