There was a chill in the air. Somehow there was always a chill in the air. Winter lodged itself into the marrow, and from there every blood cell carried it afield till the very core was but a faint pulse of warmth. He didn’t see it like this. It was not poetic as he tried to shiver himself to sleep. Three, four layers of blankets meant nothing. The fire was too far away.
An old wood stove in the kitchen crackled through the night. It was probably just embers now, he thought. Dad made sure he was afraid to touch it. The boy still remembered all the bad words Dad had screamed out one day when his fingers got in the way of a log as it drove through the little stove’s door. The log was halted by flesh and bone crunching against hot metal. It felt nothing as it fell to the floor. Did it hear or care about the pain it had just caused? Dad was jumping and yelping, almost comically. Almost, because the boy had thought Dad was impervious. It looked like he wasn’t that day, and that was scarier than being reprimanded for going near the stove a couple days ago.
No one has to tell you to wiggle the little parts of your body and keep in constant motion when you’re freezing. It hurts not to. On his knees, curled into a ball, covered in so many blankets, he rocked back-and-forth, keeping time with the song he sang in his head as a distraction piece. He never knew how, but he did know he would eventually snap to and realize he was waking up. This meant he had fallen asleep. He couldn’t wait to fall asleep.
Years later, long after his childhood home had burned down from an old wood stove in the kitchen, he was settling into bed in his grandmother’s house. After being homeless for a while, she had taken him and his brother and Dad in. Living in cheap hotels was fun for a while. He and his brother had a Nintendo. There were always chicken wings and pizza, too. Heads down, bodies stuffed as low as they could go into the footwell, Dad would tell them when it was clear to crawl back out and sneak into the room. That part was exciting every time.
His voice was lower, his body longer and leaner. It was a fine summer night. He always left his window wide open on nights like this. There was a symphony outside, a rising and falling wave of sound. This always put his mind at ease. It took a long time to put life back together, he thought. He just hoped it lasted for a while.
On his knees, curled up into a ball, he began rocking himself to sleep.