Cherries in the Snow

by Ariana Akbari

It was always so quiet, but the thoughts were always so loud. I could barely focus, walking quietly through frigid grey streets speckled with dirtying snowdrifts.

Past the Houghton library, whose present day ancestor I thought was certainly strange — with hope that I might catch a glimpse of someone who could heat me up inside.

Being lonely in Harvard yard is a different thing from reality. People can see you, only no one will take your hand — unless it’s for extra credit.

It’s cold, and I’m bundled up — headed to a kitchen somewhere, where I know that people will be. Off-guard, I like them more. Everyone’s open when they’re eating.

People look at me and no one talks. I am so hungry for a hug. It’s cold. It’s pretty. It’s so quiet and so loud out here that I can barely hear my own thoughts.

I carry books like they’re accessories. My roommate wears designer clothes like they mean something.

My parents don’t answer when I call. My coat was never thick enough for this. I’m miserable. I’m gorgeous. I’m important. I mean nothing. I love it here. I hate it.

Harvard, darling. It’s Plath’s cherries in the snow. Stick your head in the nearest toaster oven and call yourself warm.