on his snail of a computer.
“But sometimes I don’t know what to tell him,” I stall.
Mostly, I mean:
I don’t know what to say in letters to him,
especially letters to him when
he’s at war, and every word
must count, must mean
something.
Gram overhears. “That’s natural, sweetheart.”
She thinks it’s a father-daughter thing.
But it’s been a while
since I stopped crawling into his lap
for his comfort.
At some point, we must’ve
silently agreed
I’d outgrown that kind of thing.
And now, like Mom said,
I’m on the brink of womanhood—
or something like that.
So along with my pathetic attempt at a letter,
we enclose one of my sketches
of Dad’s boyhood home
with the sun shining
protective and golden
above it.
149.
Toward the end of my break,
Gram calls me to her:
“I want to show you something.”
She drags a box from under Dad’s bed
and pulls from it
several large pieces of paper.
Instantly, I know it’s artwork.
Made by my very own dad!
Not because it’s from under his bed,
but because I recognize
the way he would draw and paint
if he drew and painted.
It’s familiar somehow.
“Why didn’t he tell me about this?” I ask in disbelief.
“And where exactly was his easel all these years?”
Gram just murmurs something
about the past being the past to my dad.
We study the drawings and paintings,
Gram reminiscing about each
and telling me stories about when
or why he made it.
Then eventually, while packing
it all back up, she hands me
a stack of homemade books.
“Comics too?” I demand,
like an urchin coming out of
my shell.
150.
The next morning,
I can’t put Dad’s comics down.
While chewing my toast,
I ask Gram why he stopped.
She considers me,
takes her time sweetening her second cup of coffee,
and then finally admits,
“He had big plans for his art.”
“Who knew he was even creative!”
Still, I’m clearly in awe.
My lunch conversation
with Jacob pops into my head
about making time for art
and I demand to know: “Why did Dad give it up?”
“Because…” Gram stalls
and then she begins again,
“He and your mom had you,
and you were more important to him than anything,
so he moved on.”
“Then it’s because of me that he’s in the Army…
and in Afghanistan right now?”
“Oh no, honey,” Gramps jumps in,
joining our conversation,
“He just did the right thing,
that’s all.”
151.
Later,
on the beach
I question a world
where doing the right thing
means giving up
the things you
love.
152.
A week later
and a little more freckled,
it’s back to Mom
and my quiet bedroom,
back to school,
back to Jacob
and Camille.
On the way to my locker, I notice my shoes
still have grains of sand in them
and with each step,
I can almost feel the shifting dunes beneath my feet.
I picture Dad’s artwork and comics,
picture Dad out there somewhere
across the world,
sleeping or fighting
in a faraway desert,
or doing whatever he does,
and I wonder
if he has sand in his boots too,
and if each step he takes
he thinks
of Mom,
and
of me.
APRIL
153.
It’s been raining for days now,
and everything is growing greener.
The flowers and trees are blooming,
and Mom and I take turns X-ing off
the days we pass without Dad—
or each day until he comes back to us.
We haven’t heard from him in weeks
in this hopeful
blossoming
missing
maddening
season.
154.
Mom and I don’t mention
not
hearing from Dad.
I sense it’s getting serious.
It’s been too long in between.
The days
tick
tick
tick by
too loudly.
We talk about him like he’s here:
“Dad’s show is on TV!” I announce.
“Let’s have Dad’s favorite dinner tonight,” she says.
But we spend more time
in our separate bedrooms,