november in new hampshire

THERE’S GOT TO BE BUGS BUNNY SOMEWHERE ON TV

He gave the pasta a big stir and began shoveling out portions into bowls. “I haven’t had mac and cheese since I was, like, 12.” “I know. It’s a shame!” He set my bowl on the counter in front of me. The smell of the rich cheese brought back memories of watching afternoon cartoons. I could feel that tickle on my tongue, wanting me to eat. I wasn’t even hungry. “Dad, you’re going to be miserable later if you don’t get some rest.” “Gotta eat first. Soak up the alcohol.” In the living room he fell onto the couch. His fork scraped the bottom of the bowl with each shovelful. “Well, enjoy. Just…please clean up when you’re done. And please don’t try to go anywhere else.” I left my bowl on the counter. “Come on, Jimmy. Come eat with me. There’s got to be Bugs Bunny somewhere on T.V.” “Dad, I’m going to bed. I have so much to do in a few hours, it’s not even funny.” “It can wait,” he almost yelled. “Later you can go grow up and be all responsible, but tonight, you’re still my little boy.” He gave me the same hard look he gave Delilah when he thought she had bitten off his leg. Then he just looked down at the empty bowl. “That’s not going to change,” I said. “No, of course not. There’s just not going to be many opportunities to think that you’re all mine.” He wouldn’t really remember much of this in a few hours, but in the moment it seemed so important to him. I grabbed my bowl. “Looney Tunes should be on channel 345.” We’d work on growing up later.

NOVEMBER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

POETRY

Marina Kovacs-McCaney Silver Spring, Md. Writing major, Vocal Performance minor

in november, the leaves do not fall but are shot down, bullet shells cascading as bits of frost on the early morning grass. the leaves sleeping through red and yellow, awakening halfway to the ground in a bark-colored shell. winter let itself early into our throats, everywhere you went, you inhaled the cold. unspoken anger and abandonment, forgotten family heirlooms and memories of past lovers curling around your breath and clutching at it with witch fingers.

it is the first snow and you are alone. too soon for the season, it rips away the mask of your strength, slices through the folds of reason and you are alone with only memories and fright. memories and fright and longing.

you stand nose-to-nose with another of your kind. both raw and vulnerable and freezing. remembering and fearing and wanting to forget. your air-torn bodies pretending to be warmth to each other underneath black skies and white sheets and layers of impenetrable numbness. pretending that to give is to fill and be filled, that you are not growing emptier and emptier each time.