A Warm Day in November

A Warm Day in November

Matthew rinsed his hands under the sink. He was thirty-two. He was washing away the blood that kept welling up from the long shallow cut which snaked across the back of his left hand. He was rinsing with soap, rubbing his hands dry. These were the things he could think about.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew watched as trails of red ran down the back of his hand, each one never moving the same way as the last. They all fell onto the steering wheel. The car’s heat was on full blast, and Matthew’s windshield was beginning to fog over.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew stood in the silence of New England winter trees. He opened a box of chocolate chip cookies, and dumped them out. The showered onto the ground, dirt brown. Matthew leaned down to touch one, and his hand brushed the tip of a thorn sprouting from a vine which had somehow managed to survive the frost. A thin, curving line opened on the back of his hand.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew drove away from the church. The parking lot was filled and cars spilled onto the grass. Matthew’s car was the only thing moving. A box full of cookies sat on the seat next to him.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew stood in the lobby of the church. He looked through a window. The room was full of dark suits. A group of high school boys were singing, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. They were crying. Matthew clutched a box in his arms.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew dressed himself in a dark blue shirt and black pants. He had no tie to wear, and this embarrassed him. He walked downstairs, his steps measured. His grey haired mother asked him to drop a box off for the wake.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew held Samantha in his arms as she cried. It was three in the morning. They were the only ones in the hospital waiting room. It smelled like pine-sol and cheap carpeting. There was nothing he could say.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew sat in a chair that was too small for him. Out the small window to his left, he could see the lights of Chicago falling away past the blinking red wing-light.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew called his mother. He said things like, it will be ok. I love you. I know. I’m coming home.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew answered the phone, and a friend from high school said things like, Samantha’s son was hit by a school bus today. An accident. A tragedy. He said things like, the funeral is Saturday. She needs you again.

* * * * *

Before that, Matthew sat in his apartment, trying to write a poem. He thought he was trying to write about winter in Chicago, but it was about loneliness.

* * * * *

Before that, a boy named George walked out of his front door. He was fifteen, and his mother always said he looked like one of her old friends. About how handsome he was. He decided he was going to ride his bike to school. It wasn’t far, and it was a strangely warm day for November in Connecticut.