I dream
Dad and I
are shopping for groceries.
In the produce section,
I spy Mr. Lydon,
so naturally I cower
behind the broccoli, blushing
from head to toe.
He holds up a kiwi and muses
to no one in particular:
“You’d never know it’s green in there!”
Dad quirks his face
at a man pondering the color of fruit,
then fires commands at me:
“Abbey, front and center!
ASAP. Pronto!”
I creep forward,
and we push our cart
loaded with duct tape and plastic wrap
away from Mr. Lydon.
The dream then shifts
like a TV channel changing
from a cooking show to a broadcast of war,
in which Dad takes cover from gunfire
like an actor in a desert scene
but it is too real
and I wake drenched
in sweat
and
fear.
60.
Today we’re driving to New York
for Aunt Rose’s memorial.
Any other time, I’d be thrilled to miss school.
You don’t have to be good at math to know
new school + new girl = new ways daily to be mortified.
Mom likes her school and hopes I like Henley too,
since she was unhappy in our previous states:
“Tennessee will be good for the Woods!”
But the best thing here so far is Camille.
We’re headed out of this state now
to where sadness awaits.
I’ve never seen a dead body before,
except on TV.
And never anyone I loved.
Mom informs me there will be no body
and that her parents, Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul,
will be there.
Dad drives while Mom mostly sleeps.
He curses the other cars
that drive too slow or too fast
or generally do something wrong.
He points out the sights and landmarks:
“The majestic Smoky Mountains!”
“Look—a herd of deer!”
“Check out the Potomac River.”
I watch it all slide by
and sketch the passing hills,
a barn, other people in cars,
a church.
Stopped in traffic,
Dad peers over his shoulder at me
and calls me “Abbey the Artist,”
so I tilt the sketchpad up for him to see.
“It’s my medium,” I tell him shyly,
displaying a green pencil.
“Is that right?” he asks before turning back
to the road, to the world of signs
and speed limits
and solid lines
adults aren’t supposed
to cross.
61.
A car is a good vehicle
for daydreaming
with stock scenery rolling by.
I summon Jacob and Camille,
imagine them playing basketball,
passing and shooting and doing
all the things best friends do—
like they did before I arrived,
like they’ll do again when I move—
then I am there with them
and Jacob tosses me the ball.
To ME of all people!
Just like I’m one of them,
but my hands are full of art supplies
and I drop it all—even daydreams should be semi-realistic—
and Jacob stops playing
to go all day-dreamy:
“Can I help you with that, Abbey?”
But before I know it,
we’re in New York already,
and Mom is getting out of the car
without looking back.
And it’s hard to hit Replay
on a daydream.
62.
We eat Chinese,
the three of us, like old times, but quieter,
a restaurant we’d eaten at once for Christmas
with Aunt Rose and Uncle Todd.
Jackson, Kate, and I had drawn on the placemats
and folded them into airplanes
and sent them innocently sailing
across the empty restaurant.
The place hasn’t changed a bit,
but the world has.
63.
The next day,
I stand apart from my cousins
who stare at their feet and cry,
surrounded by whispering,
sniffling, Kleenex-clutching adults
and emotional hugging
and “I’m so sorry”
and ridiculous bouquets
of beautiful flowers.
Jackson wears a tie,
which strikes me
as funny
and I want to pull it,
but I know
he won’t chase after me today.
Kate, only eight, seems older than the last time I saw her—
almost older than I am now.
She stands amazingly still for her age—
no wiggling or twisting, no falling down,
no yanking at her clothes.
It’s confusing to see them
without Aunt Rose,
who was always there—
dancing with us, handing us
bags of popcorn, singing silly songs,
or putting a Band-Aid
on someone’s knee.
I don’t know what to say,
so I say “Wow!”