Her parents and their restaurant,
and I’m thankful for them,
thankful that they
moved here too.
93.
My relatives arrive wrinkled and dazed
in late afternoon. Uncle Todd bursts
into our house with multiple boxes in his hands
and stacks them on our kitchen table.
Jackson and Kate follow him,
and we all
hang around the edges of the room
with hands shoved in pockets or folded
across chests, staring, watching him
tear into boxes as if he must get this done
before he can unpack his suitcase and settle in.
Mom pours apple ciders and passes the cups
around. Uncle Todd pulls crumpled newspapers
from the boxes and uncovers a violin
and gives it to Mom, who holds it like a baby.
He unwraps a pair of painted maracas,
stares at them for a second, then hands them to me.
I shake them softly, recalling how Aunt Rose
taught me to hold them so the sound resonated
and was not muted or dulled by my hands.
Jackson abruptly leaves the room, his shoulder
brushing the doorframe, his shoes screeching
a discordant note in retreat.
Kate stands frozen, eyes darting from face to face.
After two whole beats of silence, Uncle Todd
clears his throat and tells Mom,
“She would’ve wanted you to have them.”
“Thank you,” Mom whispers,
tears brimming her eyes.
Then Uncle Todd pulls Kate toward him
and pries her arms loose from across her chest.
She smiles and complains, “Quit it, Dad!”
Which makes me think of my dad,
who is on the base,
but will be leaving
soon.
94.
Jackson stares out our windows,
hands safe in his pockets.
What does he see out there?
The wind is blowing,
branches sway,
a few birds flit
from leafless tree
to tree.
He seems to be looking beyond these.
I try to think of something to say.
“You want to go outside?”
but maybe
he doesn’t hear me,
or maybe
I don’t really say it.
95.
Jackson, Kate, and I
sit on the porch in the chilly fall air, waiting
for Thanksgiving to begin.
So much has happened to me this year
but even more to them.
When Grandma Jill and Grandpa Paul arrive,
they bring smiles and hugs and good ideas.
Before Grandpa has even unloaded their car,
Grandma proclaims:
“Let’s start a tradition—a banner for Thanksgiving!”
Grandpa chuckles and brings in a roll
of paper and a box of markers from their trunk.
The grown-ups sit by the fire and watch us in silence.
Jackson writes the words,
Kate colors them in,
and I draw a cartoon turkey.
We string the banner across the dining room.
Little by little, as we’re eating,
it slopes
downward
toward
our Thanksgiving dinner,
then suddenly—
dips into
the sweet potatoes.
We all laugh until
Kate tips backward out of her chair
and Jackson snorts tea from his nose,
then we all laugh some more.
After dinner, I overhear Uncle Todd
say to Mom and Grandma in the kitchen,
“They’re okay, but Jackson’s acting up
at school.”
He pauses, then continues,
“It’s just good to see them being kids.”
96.
At bedtime, Grandpa tells a story
about Mom and Aunt Rose
and the day they learned to ride
their matching Christmas bikes.
With the image of them in my head
as little girls,
I cut a smile toward Uncle Todd,
then quickly look away
when I glimpse his broken heart.
Grandpa tells the story as if nothing has changed.
He tells the story as if we’ve all agreed
to talk about Aunt Rose.
He tells the story,
and we listen,
piled up and overlapping
on the couch,
where Jackson will sleep,
and on the air mattress,
where Uncle Todd and Kate will sleep.
Just last summer
Kate begged Aunt Rose
to let her sleep with me
in my “big girl” bed.
As Grandpa’s story
comes to an end,
and we’re supposed to laugh
about how they both refused to use
training wheels,
everyone just smiles, tears streaking
most of our faces.
We say
our good nights and go
our own ways, but Kate
doesn’t follow me this year
to my room.
And I guess I feel relieved;
her sadness
is so huge.
Soon, the house is full
of quiet, sleeping noise.
Aunt Rose’s voice
was the one voice missing
from our evening.