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Colonizing Mars
Your car fishtailed in the slush
that was already
beginning to freeze,
as if you couldn’t wait
to get away after
dropping me off at
the library
on Christmas Eve.
I had just started reading
the books I checked out
when the librarian
flashed the lights before closing
and I found myself
back on the street again,
at twilight,
waiting for you.
The snow was falling faster now,
soft as the pages
tucked under my arm,
but the cold got into my shoes.
I shifted the books
from hand to hand,
too proud to set them down,
too cold to feel my fingers,
and still no sign of your car.
The church bells had tolled nine
by the time you showed up—
not in your car,
but in a taxi
because you’d forgotten
where you parked.
You smelled like whiskey and snow,
and swung the door wide
and invited me in.
Mom was almost finished
decorating the tree
when you stumbled and fell
into it and brought it down,
glass breaking like a gasp.
She dragged you around
the living room by your ear
while the tree leaned drunkenly
against the sofa,
twinkling sideways,
its broken ornaments catching
what little light was left.
I took my books to my room
without a word,
curled up beneath the covers
and opened the one
on colonizing Mars.
Outside, snow kept falling
like nothing had happened.
I could hear you arguing
through the wall and the tree
never stood quite right
for the rest of that year.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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