she says,
“I can bring Jakie
as my gift to you!”
and we conclude our Christmas call
all giggles
and silly goodbyes.
107.
Then,
like any other Wednesday,
the day Dad departs arrives.
We’re military. We should be
prepared for this.
Dad heads to the base
before the sun begins to rise.
Mom and I delay at home,
eating bowls of loud cereal.
Mom mostly stares at hers.
The hangar on the base
is draped in red, white, and blue,
and a soldier plays the trumpet.
I spy a few kids who look familiar.
Families crowd the bleachers.
Several babies are crying
and young children yawning.
The soldiers look exactly alike
with varying heights
when they march in and file
into the neat rows of chairs.
As always, I’m confused at first
by the perfect sameness
of their uniforms and movements.
I sway forward on the bleachers
and close my eyes for a moment,
then spot Dad when he stands
and walks to the podium to say
some official words. Mom motions
to him and grabs my hand—
and I don’t pull it away.
Finally, we all wave the small flags
someone has passed out to us.
For what seems like only seconds,
the camouflaged soldiers break away
from their rows—and we locate Dad
and hold onto him.
I don’t know what
words we say, but tears affect my vision,
and Mom wipes her nose with a tissue.
Then, in no time, he returns
to the formation, and they march
from the room
and out onto the tarmac.
In a big crying crowd, we follow
and watch the plane open up.
One by one
soldiers begin to disappear—
and then Dad is gone,
and I wish
I could’ve thought more clearly
or placed something special—
like a good luck charm or our latest wishbone—
in his hand, or hugged him harder,
or told him I loved him.
Did I forget
to tell him
that?
108.
Two words. Maybe it was a phrase?
B positive
almost like a message to someone, like a secret code,
almost like something I imagined he whispered,
almost like a bumper sticker or Army slogan
or strange jargon
painted on Dad’s combat boots.
B positive
I know I saw it.
There’s no mistaking it.
I’m not making it up.
So I ask Mom.
And she cracks the code.
“His blood type,” she laughs
hysterical-like, as if she’s just revealed
the punch line of a joke.
Through a forced grin, she adds,
“At least we had Christmas together!”
“His blood type on his shoes?”
I fail to comprehend.
Perhaps he wrote it
so I would see it as he walked away.
Was it an omen?
No, the very sound of it is uplifting:
B positive
B positive
B positive
“That’s your blood type, too,”
Mom tells me,
pulling me from
my stupor.
JANUARY
109.
“Happy 2002!”
—Mom and I hug each other
as the ball drops
in Times Square.
We clink fizzy drinks
and zone out to the TV—
Jackson, Kate,
Uncle Todd, and Dad
crowd our sleepy minds.
“New York is picking itself back up.” Mom sighs.
Then we settle
into the couch,
under a blanket we share,
where we’ll sleep into the light
of a brand-new year.
I’m in Mom’s arms,
like when I was little,
and as I drift off,
I whisper
Goodbye
in my head
or maybe out loud
to 2001
and tick off the year’s life-changing events:
the year we moved to Tennessee,
the year of the terrorist attacks,
the year my period arrived,
the year Aunt Rose died,
and the year Dad left for Afghanistan.
When I wake,
Mom and the magic of the night
are gone.
110.
Back to school.
And Mom is busy, busy, busy—
always grading or lesson planning,
taking deliberate, controlled breaths,
flipping from news station to news station
(as if she’ll catch a glimpse of Dad
on the TV war), stirring
a cup of tea, or repetitively
checking her e-mail.
I thought we’d talk more
with just the two of us here.
But it’s the opposite,
which is okay by me,
for now,