Leslie Ann

I was nine years old.
Watching snow fall,
I stood over a floor grate,
warm air deliciously kissing my legs,
forehead pressed cool against the glass pane,
breath, wave-like, lapping opaque and clear.

In the next room, my father silently ate his favorite meal,
boiled tongue,
while my mother,
authoritative, demanding, needful,
unleashed hers.

This day it was directed at our next door neighbor's
thirteen year old daughter, Leslie-Ann Gross.

Leslie-Ann was a plain, voluble and remarkably ordinary girl.

My mother,
who dedicated her entire adult life to the relentless pursuit of derision,
was eagerly infuriated by the presence of such a crass and insensitive creature.
Leslie-Ann's crime, and the great crime of her family, was two-fold:
the absolute want of culture
coupled with
the equally absolute want for culture.
Leslie-Ann dressed without taste,
talked too loudly,
picked her moist nose,
and with the profundity of a happy, frolicking young heifer,
pondered her existence.

The heat stopped.
I shivered,
and after lightly kicking the door closed,
returned to the window.
Wondering how a simple girl could cause such venom,
I felt an ache in my chest
and over the muffled vitriolic murmur,
listened intently for the sound of snow.