remember.
173.
Other students fill the desks
around me, and as attendance is taken,
and the final announcements are made,
I know I’m different.
Words roll from my tongue, the ones
I’ve repeated since I was five:
…with liberty and justice for all.
But today,
my eyes are open wide.
I will stand up to things that are wrong
let myself be heard, be strong, defend,
befriend. I can do things I never realized.
I have skills that travel.
I pledge allegiance.
I pledge allegiance.
I pledge allegiance
to stand up,
to stand tall,
to mean it
wherever I am
with liberty and justice for all.
174.
To make my room
less temporary, Camille, Jacob, and Jiman have agreed
to help transform my ceiling into art.
Jacob skips soccer for this!
It takes two minutes tops
before Jiman wins the hearts
of my other two friends.
Mom’s on board with our project,
and she’s stocked us with all the supplies.
I’ve decided to go with deep blue
and stars that pierce through,
shining into this world from another,
which makes me think of Aunt Rose.
Jiman designs elaborate stars
like Georgia O’Keeffe flowers.
And Jacob freestyles constellations.
“Go Michelangelo!” I tease.
“Doing all the hard work for you guys,”
Camille reminds us, as she layers blue
into the four corners of the room.
When we’re done,
we all recline on my bed
to stargaze at our creation.
And I consider myself lucky
to be among friends,
which is a really good place
to be.
AND THE MONTHS BEYOND
175.
Dad has begun the process
of coming home to us.
It will take weeks.
But a few more weeks we can manage now.
Just enough time to finish
my painting for him.
On the phone, I ask him quietly,
“Has it been bad?”
but not: Will you be the same?
And he whispers,
“Abbey, I’m fortunate,
I get to come home to my two favorite girls.”
And his voice sounds like liquid
somewhere out there
on the other side of the world.
176.
Then,
it just happens.
Finally!
The door opens and closes,
and he is back where he should be,
back where he belongs,
back to the place where we all sleep,
sharing the same latitude
and longitude on a map.
It’s as simple as that.
There are no other words.
Just—
the three of us
together
in the same place
at the same time
again.
For now,
we are home.
We are.
177.
Within days,
it’s almost like he was never gone.
Almost.
Some things are different now.
I’m not exactly sure how.
I can’t put it onto the page
or paint it into a picture—
not yet.
I can see it in his eyes.
There is helplessness and protectiveness.
There is strength and weakness.
There is loss and there is love.
Maybe the difference is Dad,
maybe it’s me,
maybe it’s Aunt Rose,
maybe it’s Mom,
maybe it’s War.
We have shifted
as our world has,
forever scarred.
But we are together
and we are stronger.
178.
Instead of sitting around,
Dad seems anxious to connect,
to be a family again.
“I have some stuff to show you,” Dad tells me one afternoon
and pulls the artwork
I sent to him in Afghanistan
from his boxes.
Each one is carefully packaged
and unbent. He takes his time
displaying them
on his bed.
But I can’t wait any longer
and have to ask:
“Why didn’t you tell me you were an artist, too?”
“That was a long time ago, Abbey,
and you are my masterpiece,”
he says, looking into my eyes.
My knees go weak
with the weight of his love.
Then he takes out
a folder full of drawings
that aren’t mine.
In response to each picture I sent,
there’s another one,
like an echo, or an answer,
or maybe a question.
There are several desert scenes
and pictures of soldiers
and children.
“Her name is Amena.”
He points to a sketch of an Afghan girl.
“I think I just took a break from art,” he explains.