MEMORIES OF DECEMBER
BY CHRISTA MASTRANGELO
Learning to play Moonlight Sonata on the piano
next to an old fireplace;
the smell of cedar burning, wood popping
and cracking, sparks singeing
the tips of moss green carpet.
Sleeping like a cat under
the Christmas tree; lying face up
on the ground, making angels in new fallen
snow. Exhaling warm breath
onto a window pane; the sting
of cold glass against the tip of my nose.
The breathless tremble of my lungs,
inhaling piercing winter wind.
Drain pipes laden with icicles
hanging like corpses' fingers.
Barren trees silhouetted by
the muted sun. The way you looked
on the examiner's table, facing up
into fluorescents‹cold, gray.
The way you looked in a coffin,
not like you at all;
the way the snow felt by your gravesite.
The ache in my chest,
as if I were trapped under a frozen lake
banging my fists on the ice above.