and point to all the flowers,
but Jackson and Kate
just stare harder at their feet,
and wipe their faces with their hands,
as they stand side by side
like sad dolls in fancy clothes.
The words
Red Rover, Red Rover, send Abbey right over
pop into my head, but I cannot
join my cousins
or snap them out of their grief.
They’re brother and sister—
and I am just a girl
whose mother is somewhere
nearby.
64.
Back at their apartment,
casseroles and tiny sandwiches
crowd every empty surface.
Who are all these people
who knew Aunt Rose?
Did they work with her in the tower?
If so, how did they escape?
A sobbing woman
corners and tries to hug me,
but I slip away.
I’ve always thought of the instruments
throughout their apartment
as my aunt’s friends.
I don’t even know what she did
at her job. It must have been important,
enough to die.
Uncle Todd just stares,
standing stationary in their living room,
the center of a shifting group.
He’s skinnier than I remember
and his beard is growing in.
He doesn’t call me “Abbey Fabulous!”
like he used to, but smiles vaguely,
as if thinking, “Who are you again?”
Jackson seems to shrink back
from him, as if it would hurt
too much to touch.
If ever there was a time
they need Aunt Rose,
it is now.
She was their cheerleader,
their tour guide, the captain
of their joyride—and now they are adrift.
She was the mom who lived for
roller coasters, screaming louder
than all the others, painted her toenails
a rainbow of colors, made
a family of themed costumes
for Halloween.
Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul slump
on the couch, silent tears
trail down their faces.
I sit on the couch’s arm.
Grandma smiles up at me
and grabs my hand.
We watch all the people.
Some are eating.
Some talk quietly.
Dad, for once, seems to know
just what to do and stands close
to Uncle Todd, as if to catch him
if he falls. Mom scoops up Kate
and places her on her lap
with a book in front of them,
and I’m glad she does this.
Someone plays Aunt Rose’s piano.
I keep thinking it is her
and looking over my shoulder.
Was Aunt Rose the last person
to touch the keys? It angers me
that it can make music still.
65.
It’s different this time
with Jackson and Kate.
Usually, we fall instantly in sync,
tumble off to build a pillow-and-blanket fort,
or write a play, or plot a rolled-sock war,
or color tattoos on our arms
for our rock-and-roll band:
Introducing The Donuts!
“You can tell they’re related,”
our parents would muse from another room.
We just fit together—like Legos.
We were “The Three Musketeers!”
This time, though, they seem
more like names or familiar faces—
two people I see a few times each year,
to whom I happen
to be related.
After a while, they retreat
to their bedrooms
and close their doors.
Is this what heartbroken looks like?
On a napkin, I sketch a heart
fracturing and falling apart
into two piles of red.
On the long ride home,
we pass the same landmarks—
the same hills,
towns,
cities,
bridges,
and rivers.
I stare out the windows.
Again, Mom sleeps while Dad drives
and curses the other drivers,
yet somehow this time
I find a little comfort
in all this.
66.
My period comes ’round again
like a nightmare
like a surprise test in Science
like a speech I have to give on a stage
like a recurring dream
with people I cannot locate
and something important I’ve forgotten to do
and blood on my hands that will not wash away
and a familiar stab
in my lower back.
I hug myself into morning,
doing the math:
7 days
Once a month
12 times a year
7 x 12 = 84 days a year
I want to stay in bed,
stay home from school,
skip my entire seventh-grade year—
but I hear Mom leaving
for the high school, her car backing
down and out the drive, and this
feels like my cue
to rise.
Sometimes, lately, she forgets
to wake or kiss me before she goes.
It’s okay, though;
I’m a young woman now.