120.
Dear Abbey,
I hope school is mono-derful (get it—one-derful?)
and that you’re making some new friends.
Tell Camille I say hello.
We’re settling in, but communication
may be difficult at times.
I’m picturing your painting in my head right now.
The landscape here is monochromatic.
I think about you and Mom every day.
Miss you.
Love,
Dad
121.
Mom has joined a “support group.”
It’s her New Year’s resolution.
Over dinner, she briefly explains:
“I had a sister and she died…
and I have to deal with that.”
“But you are dealing with it,”
I insist, searching her face.
“We are dealing, right?”
She looks down at her plate.
“If I could’ve said goodbye
or seen her again, it would’ve
been different, I think.”
Later, after brushing her teeth,
she adds, “Plus, it’ll help me
be stronger, be a better
mother to you.”
I hug her and realize I’m almost
as tall as she is now.
Lying in bed, I decide
on my New Year’s resolution:
To be a stronger person, too.
I make a mental list of courageous things I could do:
Not care
what The Trio thinks.
Speak up in Art so Mr. Lydon sees I have a brain.
Tell the boys on the bus to stuff it.
Tell Dad I love him the next time we talk.
Be more like Jiman.
Like Camille.
Be brave.
Be strong.
But it’s late at night
when so many things
seem possible.
122.
I’m learning life goes on,
when someone you love is in Afghanistan.
In a war.
Sometimes the daily chores—
like brushing my teeth,
my hair, going to school,
and eating three meals—
interrupt the hoping
to hear from him.
The waiting is heavy, especially for Mom.
Between each letter, each call,
we wait to hear from him again,
just the sound of his voice.
Aunt Rose’s voice is totally gone.
Sometimes I hear Dad in my head.
Just the little things he says,
like how he jokes
when I flip the channels,
“Whoa! Stop this ride. Let me get off.”
FEBRUARY
123.
The dining room is too big
and we’re saving it for when Dad returns,
so we eat in the kitchen now.
“What is he doing exactly?” I ask.
“They’re looking
for the terrorists who attacked us.”
“Is everyone there a terrorist?”
“No, of course not,” Mom explains.
“Someone at school said our troops will kill innocent people.
How will they know the good guys from the bad?”
“It’s not black and white,” she tries.
“It’s deeply complicated.”
So I just close my eyes, hold my breath, and ask it:
“He won’t get hurt, will he?”
She picks up her plate and walks to the sink,
stands with her back to me.
“He’s good at what he does,” she finally states.
Her answer’s no good,
and she knows it,
and I think of Jackson and Kate,
and how they’re a family of three now.
How do you ever get used
to a shift like that?
Even with simple things, like when
my family moves to a new house, my brain
gets stuck. In my last bedroom,
I slept beside a window, and even now,
many months later, when I first wake,
I sit up and try to look out the wall.
All of a sudden it hits me!
I know exactly what I want
more than being left alone on the bus—
because, face it, I make a good target.
When I think super hard, really concentrate on it,
I don’t believe I’ve ever felt at home
in the houses we’ve lived in
or the schools I’ve known.
At home within myself.
Like I truly belong.
124.
In Language Arts the next day,
Ms. Johnson instructs us
to compose a letter or a poem,
or a few words to enclose
in a package for one of “our service members.”
I look up, surprised by her words—
I stall, my paper waiting…
and steal glances at the kids
in my class
sitting awkwardly at their small desks.
Directly in front of me,
Tommy jots words on his paper,
then nods at another boy
as if to say,
Mission Accomplished!
When Ms. Johnson gathers all of our notes
and folds them into a large envelope,
she walks straight toward me
and places it onto my desk.
I stare
like it’s a bomb about to go off.
All the other eyes in class
stare at me.