I Always Think Of You Every November, When It Rains
On rainy November days,
such as this one,
I think of my grandmother’s house.
The smell of burnt dust in heater vents,
pale floral patterns on Dixie cups,
and my grandmother’s night gown
as she sits in her chair
and casts embroidered spells
on blankets and pillowcases,
conjuring up cross-stitched roses
and butterflies
in all of my favorite colors.
I think of my 4-year-old hand,
numb from the cluster of snow
that I collected off the kitchen floor,
left behind by my father’s boot
as he rushed out the door.
Holding the cluster of ice crystals
makes me feel as though
a piece of him is still there with me.
Eventually,
the snow melts,
and I cry.
“Your Daddy had to go to work,”
my grandmother says.
But he didn’t even say goodbye.
On rainy November days,
such as this one,
I think of tracing telephone wires
beyond the car window with my eyes,
as my mother drags me around town with her
to do some Christmas shopping
for family members
I don’t even like.
I think of the way
the rain collects in shallow puddles on the pavement
reflecting Christmas lights,
tempting 7-year-olds such as myself
to shatter the smooth-surfaced images
of a backwards world
with my boot.
On rainy November days,
such as this one,
I think of staying home,
sick,
from high school.
My mother forces me off of the couch,
away from Supernatural reruns,
to the shitty clinic down the street.
The waiting room is crammed,
and for the first time,
I am thankful that I can’t breathe through my nose
as the man in the corner of the room
farts in the midst of a coughing fit.
I get up and change seats.
The little girl who I sit across from looks up at me,
gasps,
and yells, “You’re pretty!”.
She quickly covers her mouth,
as if some kind of dangerous secret
had just slipped out.
Everyone in the room laughs
and stares,
mumbling in agreeance
as my anxiety peaks.
I laugh,
thank her,
and stand up way too fast
when the nurse
calls me into the back room.
On rainy November days,
such as this one,
I think of the stale air of my high school cafeteria.
Seventeen,
I sit across from my favorite teacher,
with his unusual facial hair,
at a table outside of his classroom.
For the first time,
I am thankful
for No Shave November.
For the first time,
I realize,
red
is one of my favorite colors.
He nonchalantly informs me
that I am one of his favorite students,
catching me off guard.
It takes me years to understand
what he means,
when he says
“I’m proud of who you are”.
On rainy November days,
such as this one,
I think of black T-shirts
worn by the first guy I ever thought I loved.
I think of the home
I built in his presence,
and the wrecking ball
with pretty eyes
and lip-gloss
who came and effortlessly tore it down
with the flick of her hand.
Her hand,
the pedestal on which his future promises
and handpicked diamonds
are now displayed.
The chalk outlines
and announcements of our expiration
have already been washed away by the rain.
On rainy November Days,
such as this one,
I think of you.
Always.
I think of you,
every November,
when it rains.
© Gina Clingan 2020
