to leave people alone for once
because mostly I’m relieved
that they’ve forgotten
about me.
NOVEMBER
78.
Most afternoons,
I find Mom lying on her bed
with books propped around her
neither sleeping
nor reading.
Once a week, she writes
a letter to Jackson and Kate
from our kitchen table
and asks me to draw
a “happy” picture on it.
One time, I sketch
a pink flower blooming
up the side of the paper—
and for some reason,
this makes her cry
and lock herself
in her bedroom
for the weekend.
79.
Does someone stay the age
they die forever? A still life,
a photograph, a timeline
stopped, a forever blank spot
in their family’s future?
I dream Aunt Rose
takes an elevator skyward,
finger on the Up button,
Willy Wonka style,
zipping like a shooting star
across New York’s horizon.
I hope
the rivers run chocolate
where she is. And they have music.
And all the instruments.
And a twinkling of souls
strung ’round the dark
like a party where she’s
the honored guest
all dressed
in light.
Mom hopes,
she whispers in a broken voice,
“One day they find her
or some of her bones,
find something to lay beneath
the ground and a stone
we can write her name on.”
80.
Camille tells me
that Jacob informed her
that Sheila’s boyfriend Tommy
and some eighth-graders
were caught after hours
at the elementary school next door
throwing rocks at a little boy
and calling him “Terrorist!”
because of his name
and the shade of his skin.
I recall
Dad’s words:
“It’s what they do.
They’re terrorists.”
But
He’s just a little boy!
81.
In the cafeteria,
I overhear some girls at a table nearby
gossiping and pointing in Jiman’s direction.
Jiman sketches in a sketchbook.
Does she know they’re talking about her?
Any other day,
they could be
just as easily
talking about me.
I hear
them say
that she moved here
from somewhere up north,
or maybe farther away,
that her parents run a restaurant in town.
Who’d eat there!
the girls laugh
and
Terrorists!
they whisper.
But I am thinking:
My parents and I will.
We
will
eat there.
82.
Today
for the first time ever,
Jiman doesn’t sit alone on the bus.
She sits with a little boy,
who usually sits near the driver.
Perhaps he’s her brother.
He looks like the boy from Halloween.
I wonder if he’s the ONE
they threw rocks at.
Jiman sits on the outside
facing the aisle, as if daring
anyone to bother them,
and the little boy sits by the window.
He crouches low in the seat
and pretends to sleep.
83.
We’re having class outdoors.
I zip my jacket from the autumn chill.
Mr. Lydon has instructed us
to pick a “natural” object to draw.
So I wander around, begin sketching
a large rock that lies left of the soccer field,
a rock kids hang out on after school.
But I crumple my page, move on.
I come to Aunt Rose’s tree,
the one I tied a ribbon around in September,
and I sit at its base.
The branches are mostly empty now.
Like arms, they could hug me
if they could bend.
Dry leaves surround the tree—
like clothing fallen free.
I think of Dad’s camouflage
and its shades of color
meant to keep him hidden.
A few branches have broken and are hanging crooked,
from where kids must have swung from them.
It’s a lovely tree, really.
After sketching it,
I re-tie the faded ribbon
and think of Aunt Rose,
before leaving
to look for
Camille.
84.
It’s that time again.
“Has your monthly visitor come to call?” Mom asks,
which seriously irritates me
because a visitor should be invited
or wanted, or at least have permission
to drop by.
I spend lots of time