Dressing in Front of the Open Gas Oven for Warmth
by Megan Hanlon
It was sleeping with tomorrow’s sweater and jeans tucked under my wool-socked feet to lessen the shock of cold fabric against still-warm skin. It was bitter north winds rattling the single-pane glass in dry-rotting wooden frames. It was dawn so weak it couldn’t bear to shine. It was a nose so cold it ached then gave up feeling anything. It was the acrid smell of my parents’ cheap cigarettes and cheaper coffee under the sulfurous scent of natural gas that made my throat clamp down just a little. It was huddling under three blankets until threatened by a tardy slip. It was rising from bed, reluctant as cold sap, and shuffling off the protective cocoon. It was dragging down a hall floored with splitting wood, socks snagging on splinters, dog hair and termites collecting between the planks. It was turning toward the fluorescent-lit kitchen and the warm embrace of the open oven. It was crouching before the blue god of short flames in his black metal cave, winking at me like a dozen butterfly wings, sucking moisture from my lips in return for brief comfort. It was taking care not to touch the metal door with its unsoftened corners that would singe and scratch – even what helps can hurt sometimes. It was baring my secret parts not yet blossomed in an open room where my brother could see the brazen lack of shadows. It was wrenching on cool clothes as quickly as possible: a too-big knit sweater gifted from an out-of-state relative, stiff denim against skinny legs, an old pair of blue hiking socks my mom held on to like hope despite never hiking farther than the grocery store and back home. It was hard-to-breathe heat on one side, frigid failure on the other.
Megan Hanlon is a podcast producer who sometimes writes. Her words have appeared in The Forge, South Florida Poetry Journal, Variant Literature, Gordon Square Review, and more. Her blog, Sugar Pig, is known for relentlessly honest essays that are equal parts tragedy and comedy.
by Megan Hanlon
It was sleeping with tomorrow’s sweater and jeans tucked under my wool-socked feet to lessen the shock of cold fabric against still-warm skin. It was bitter north winds rattling the single-pane glass in dry-rotting wooden frames. It was dawn so weak it couldn’t bear to shine. It was a nose so cold it ached then gave up feeling anything. It was the acrid smell of my parents’ cheap cigarettes and cheaper coffee under the sulfurous scent of natural gas that made my throat clamp down just a little. It was huddling under three blankets until threatened by a tardy slip. It was rising from bed, reluctant as cold sap, and shuffling off the protective cocoon. It was dragging down a hall floored with splitting wood, socks snagging on splinters, dog hair and termites collecting between the planks. It was turning toward the fluorescent-lit kitchen and the warm embrace of the open oven. It was crouching before the blue god of short flames in his black metal cave, winking at me like a dozen butterfly wings, sucking moisture from my lips in return for brief comfort. It was taking care not to touch the metal door with its unsoftened corners that would singe and scratch – even what helps can hurt sometimes. It was baring my secret parts not yet blossomed in an open room where my brother could see the brazen lack of shadows. It was wrenching on cool clothes as quickly as possible: a too-big knit sweater gifted from an out-of-state relative, stiff denim against skinny legs, an old pair of blue hiking socks my mom held on to like hope despite never hiking farther than the grocery store and back home. It was hard-to-breathe heat on one side, frigid failure on the other.
Megan Hanlon is a podcast producer who sometimes writes. Her words have appeared in The Forge, South Florida Poetry Journal, Variant Literature, Gordon Square Review, and more. Her blog, Sugar Pig, is known for relentlessly honest essays that are equal parts tragedy and comedy.