I Always Think Of You Every November, When It Rains
By: Gina Clingan
Tags: Poetry On Medium, November, Nostalgia, Poetry, Poem

Photo by Andy Grizzell on Unsplash

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.