My Cardboard Balcony

When It's Cold by Belinda Roddie When it's cold - when the leaves grow frosty fingers to grip the rail of the stairwell with, and the world grows sluggish like a blood-chilled reptile settling in a pile of Mother Nature's rags - I find comfort in your arms, which drape over me like curtains shielding me from an ever more intrusive audience. Take care not to let me shiver, for I can cause earthquakes and raise islands along both your skin and mine. The erosion only keeps our pores open for so long, and between us, the heat exchanged could cause smoke if we rely on too much friction or light a spark with our quick tongues. I am not around to hear your lamentations. I sleep through them, and the dreams I carry over mountains cry out for milk and bread while my mouth is a desert waiting for a storm. They say the last time it snowed here was forty years ago, but the rain is plentiful, and the gutters are clogged by wet percussion and mud. It will s

I hadn't seen this particular relative of mine in quite a while: My Uncle Tobias, who had transitioned seven years ago, and who had sobered up after decades of trying to lay down the booze. Now he was standing in front of my house, a full beard around his jaw, holding a pumpkin pie. "Thanks for having me," he said in a voice that was lower than mine - which was rather impressive. I smiled and escorted him into the kitchen, where my mother was still working on the mashed potatoes.