so I smudge the faces I’ve drawn
with the tip of my shoe
and whisper,
“Gotta run!” and dash,
like I tend to do lately,
leaving them
staring
after
me.
54.
On October 7th,
close to 12,000 people
in New York City
m a r C H
from Union Square
to Times Square
in opposition
to the administration’s
War on
Terrorism.
Camille says
her dad wishes
he could join them.
She tells me that instead
he marched around
their block.
55.
At home,
some days Mom buries herself
in stacks of math tests at the table,
red slashes here and there
on her hands from grading.
I feel sorry for her students.
I walk through rooms
and she doesn’t look up.
Once, she turned off the light
as she left a room
that I was in.
Other days, she slouches
on the couch, a glass of red wine
in one hand, a photo album open
on her lap, Aunt Rose smiling from photos.
I close the book when she drifts off,
pour the wine down the sink,
and lay a blanket
over her.
When he’s home,
Dad lingers
at the doorways of rooms
and occasionally asks her,
“Is there anything you need me to do?”
or he studies news programs,
as if hearing people talk about “suicide missions”
will tell him
how to fix this—
and Mom.
56.
We attend the vigil
held at the fire department.
A patriotic song is sung.
Flags of all sizes are flown.
The adults are crying,
except Mom, who is too sad
to be here. Strangers hold
hands, hold on to each other,
hold each other’s babies.
Dad and I don’t know how
to be sad together,
so we smile and pretend
to watch children
turn cartwheels in the grass.
I’m sure he’s wishing
I was still one of them.
57.
I’m attempting to sketch the still life
Mr. Lydon has arranged
in the center of our classroom.
He’s explaining how you have secondary colors
because of the primary ones.
Jiman’s sketch
looks just like a photograph.
I wonder how
she did it.
I find nothing inspiring
about the bowl of fruit
but try to capture the shades of apple
versus banana.
I bet the fruit find themselves boring too!
When Mr. Lydon isn’t looking,
Tommy snags an apple
and chomps it.
How are we supposed
to keep this up
with the world
crumbling
around us?
I imagine the fruit bowl imploding, apples
spinning away, bananas
smashed—
and find myself needing to know
if everything has a purpose,
a place and a plan
on this planet…
Suddenly
Mr. Lydon approaches,
making his rounds behind us.
I hunker down…
then he’s directly behind me
and I blurt out:
“What’s a…suicide mission?”
Other kids are shocked
at my voice—
probably me more than them.
Without pause—and as if it’s on topic—
he says, “An act that usually takes the life
of the perpetrator as well as others,”
and then he changes the subject:
“I believe you’ve found
your medium, Abbey. Colored pencils
are working out well for you.”
“Thanks,” I mumble
and turn back
to the apples and bananas,
wondering what cause
could be worth
all those lives.
And what caused me
to let the random thoughts
out of my head.
Camille looks over
and mouths, “Your medium!”
And my cheeks turn
the Magic Magenta
pencil #7 color.
58.
In the hallway
between Science
and Language Arts,
Jiman appears
and pauses directly
in front of me, eyebrows
raised in recognition.
I come to a sudden stop.
Mirror-like, we move
in whatever direction
the other one starts—
her eyes laugh at this.
But it’s no surprise that
I’m overcome by self-doubt
and flee before I find
any words
to speak.
59.