But I’m glad Grandpa talked about her—
out loud
in our house.
97.
In the morning,
Mom and Grandma are banging pans
around in the kitchen. The smell
of bacon and coffee stirs me.
I toss in my bed, thinking how Dad
will be leaving any day now,
how I could be like
Jackson and Kate,
and wondering
if Aunt Rose seems gone to them
or like
she’ll return home soon.
I leave my bed
and find both my cousins
still asleep.
Jackson has joined Kate
on the air mattress,
his arm thrown across her back.
Uncle Todd must be
the one in the shower.
For a few minutes, I watch
them sleep, check
for peeking eyes.
They look like babies—
soft and happy.
Then someone shuffles around upstairs,
and for a fraction of a second
Dad crosses my mind
…and the possibility
of the unthinkable
happening.
Then suddenly,
I want to wake Jackson and Kate
and tell them I love them,
but I tiptoe past instead.
98.
Our holiday comes to an end,
and we hug and say our goodbyes.
Then,
without warning,
Uncle Todd begins to cry.
Jackson and Kate just stare,
their arms hanging loose at their sides.
Grandpa gives him a bear hug.
My uncle looks at Dad,
and then at me,
and says,
“Abbey, your dad is one good man!
Rose would be so proud.”
I’m not sure what he means
or why he says this now,
but I smile at him
like Abbey Fabulous would,
and he hugs me tightly
around the head.
99.
The President
of the United States
has come to town
to tour the base.
It’s all over the news—
and Dad’s busier than usual.
In the few minutes he’s actually home,
he explains, “It’s because we’re about to go.”
And by “go” I know what he means,
but I try to connect these events:
Dad leaving
and
the president arriving
like a cause-and-effect sentence
or a dot-to-dot that reveals an image,
yet the lines aren’t straight and people disagree about the big picture.
Like Camille’s dad, who’s protesting
the president’s visit.
100.
During the holidays,
Dad and I always split a wishbone,
a tradition of ours.
Mom locates it, washes it,
and then dries it on the kitchen
windowsill.
Usually I wish
to become a world-famous artist
because I usually break off
the biggest piece—
or maybe Dad lets me win.
This year, before bedtime,
he comes into my bedroom
“Hey there, Abbey the Artist!”
and holds up the wishbone.
“You wanna?”
And, of course,
I break off the winning piece.
But I don’t feel like a winner
and I’m torn this year
between
making a wish for Jackson and Kate
and making a wish for him.
DECEMBER
101.
With Thanksgiving over,
we search for Afghanistan
on the Internet.
It’s not where
I thought it was.
One map calculates
the exact distance in miles
that will separate Dad from us,
and it’s over seven thousand.
I speculate that most
of my classmates
could not locate Afghanistan
or even spell it
correctly.
Dad traces his flight route
on the monitor with a steady finger
so Mom can know
where they will lay over.
I place my finger on Tennessee,
the place where we currently sleep,
and notice how it looks like an arrow pointing elsewhere.
Is this state really my home?
I study the blue expanse of water
that Dad will cross,
and then
stab my finger
on the place
where he will sleep and work
for a while.
“We can write each other…
…and talk occasionally,”
he offers softly.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
But when I ask,
“What will you be doing there?”
He stammers
like he doesn’t really know
or doesn’t want to tell me.
102.
Camille’s absent
so I sit alone at lunch, hyperaware
of every little stare and the cafeteria filling up around me—
until Angela, Sheila, and Lana