Northern New England Review Volume 42 | 2022
Northern New England Review is published as a creative voice for the Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine region. NNER publishes writers and artists who live in, are from, or have connections to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. If you live here, were once from here, lost or found your heart here, or are currently searching for it among the green hills, sparkling ponds, and rocky coasts, NNER has the poems, short fiction, and creative nonfiction you want to read. Northern New England Review is edited and designed by students and faculty at Franklin Pierce University in Rindge, New Hampshire. Questions can be sent to Margot Douaihy, editor, at douaihym@franklinpierce.edu.
Northern New England Review is published as a creative voice for the Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine region. NNER publishes writers and artists who live in, are from, or have connections to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine. If you live here, were once from here, lost or found your heart here, or are currently searching for it among the green hills, sparkling ponds, and rocky coasts, NNER has the poems, short fiction, and creative nonfiction you want to read.
Northern New England Review is edited and designed by students and faculty at Franklin Pierce University in Rindge, New Hampshire. Questions can be sent to Margot Douaihy, editor, at douaihym@franklinpierce.edu.
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Chris Torino
GOING TO HER NOW
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered…
–Billy Collins, “The Lanyard”
“This is my mother’s favorite window,” I told any first-time visitor to
my early-childhood home. My mother smiled—closed-lipped, kindly,
proudly—at me.
I, still then mutually proud, beamed.
A small octagonal window, with dark-stained-wood grilles and
frame. In a family room newly added with a one-car garage, to our
three-bedroom ranch in my suburban New Hampshire hometown.
This west-facing window with no sunrises shining through, and too
high up for me, as a child, to see sunsets. Even now, from a Google
Maps street view, the octagonal window is hidden, tucked away.
Had she ever said it was her favorite? Did I just feel it? Had
it been her idea to add that window? Knowing my father—and
her—this window might’ve been her one contribution to the plan.
Regardless, I let everyone know it was her favorite: friendsn of the
family once brought their new VCR-tape-sized camcorder, and the
footage of my house tour shows me four times asserting this.
I remember building with Legos on the brown carpet in that new
room, with a view—partially obstructed by dining-room chairs—of
my mother in the kitchen, seated at the folding card table. Memories
of her with a cigarette in her left hand, working a curled-up-cat puzzle
with her right. I don’t remember her listening to music, but, today,
40 years later, I might play Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of
Silence” as accompaniment. This greatest-hits LP, standing silent
in our cabinet, and our then cat, Garfunkel, might agree; and its
theme—the inability to communicate emotionally—sounds true.
A year later—same view—she held to her ear the handset of our beige,
NORTHERN NEW ENGLAND REVIEW | 17
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