from my head
to my heart.
Notebook
Mrs. B. is allergic to silly. She must be.
I never hear her laugh…
I sing around the house all the time. Ken says
I should join the choir.
God, what do you think?
Me too.
Most people only want to talk to you once a week. But you know me, God. I could live at church.
Pssst!
Come close,
and I’ll tell you
God’s secret:
Music is
His most favorite thing.
There are bands in the Bible,
strumming harps,
blowing trumpets,
thumping tambourines
and cymbals, too.
“Play something!” say the angels.
But I don’t know how.
“Sing, then!” say the angels.
So, I do.
FIRST LOVE
Hill Street was a sweet-smelling,
rainbow-tinted place in summer,
thanks to the trellis of
American Beauty roses
that hugged the house,
a tangle of wild grapevines,
a patch of violets and anemones,
and the saucer-sized
white hydrangeas
and blue hydrangeas
that challenged the bushes
for attention.
A carpet of lemongrass and clover
begged me to lie down,
and every day it didn’t rain,
I obliged.
Notebook
Mr. B. gives me daddy hugs whenever he sees I need one.
I’ve got one more reason to like him:
We have music in common.
I often hear his sweet baritone
humming around the house, just because.
Brad is like my little mascot, following me everywhere.
He gets away with it ’cause he’s so cute…
Kendall’s younger than me,
but he’s like my big brother,
always making sure I’m okay.
Michael ignores me. Just as well.
Ask me, trouble is his shadow.
If he’s not careful, he’ll end up
down the road in Sing Sing.
Funny name for a prison.
FIRST LIGHT
One July night
too sticky for bedclothes,
Ken and I camped in the yard,
counting stars you can’t see
in the city.
“Be right back,” he said,
returning later
with proof that
the North Star
had earthly competition.
“Here,” he said,
proudly bestowing on me
a magical jar
housing temporary tenants:
my first fireflies,
dancing on air!
Notebook
My first solo, “This Little Light of Mine.”
I tried fixing my hair to make it special, but couldn’t get it right.
Grace rolled her eyes when I asked for help, but she did it anyway.
Guess she doesn’t hate me, after all…
Michael was out all night. Drinking and doing drugs, according to
Grace. She said Mrs. B. doesn’t play that.
By this afternoon, Michael was gone…
Dance class! Mrs. B. says I get to take ballet.
My favorite part so far? The slippers.
Met Lori today. She lives down the street.
Says she wants to be my friend.
Didn’t know how much I was missing one until then…
GRAPE ESCAPADE
My assignment clear:
pick grapes from the vine for jam.
No more, no less—right?
I confess, the grape taste-test
was strictly my own idea.
NO PICNIC
The park at the foot of Hill Street
provided all the space needed
for a family Labor Day cookout.
Ken and Brad’s cousins arrived,
with aunts, uncles,
and a grandmother thrown in
who gave me a once-over.
The fried chicken
and corn on the cob were tasty,
but meeting some of those
extra relatives
was about as sweet
as sauerkraut.
“You must be the new one,”
said an aunt,
comparing me to who?
“You know James and Anne,” said another,
“always taking in strays, God bless ’em.”
Kendall, busy making his hot dog disappear,
missed the comment, but noticed
me suddenly drop my eyes.
He came running too late
to keep the cut
from stinging.
A few words—just enough
to remind this outsider
who she didn’t belong to.
For me,
this beautiful family
was only
borrowed.
Notebook
I caught a fish—imagine! Catfish. Ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,
but I caught it. Mr. B. taught me how. Mrs. B. cleaned it. Yuck!
What a mess.
When she fried it up, I took a taste.
Sorry, Fish. You were good.
We made ice cream! I didn’t know you could do that.
I got to crank the machine. Somebody should have told me
how much hard work it would be just to make a little bit
of vanilla goodness. It took forever waiting for the ice cubes
to crack and melt, for the vanilla, cream, and sugar mixed in
to get all thick and creamy. Man, I thought my arm would fall off.
It was worth it, though. Yum!
I shared it with Lori, then we rode our bikes around the
neighborhood till it was time to go in for the night.
Summer’s over, and I started school. It’s called Claremont,
and I think I’m going to like it. Some of the kids on my block
go there, too. At least there’ll be a few familiar faces.
OCTOBER SURPRISE
Birthday celebrations
in foster care
are rare.
Who bothers about
the day you were born?
But when I turned seven,
Mrs. B. baked
a chocolate cake
with buttercream icing.
I don’t recall
anyone baking me
a birthday cake before.
Maybe that’s why
I baptized my first slice
with tears.
Notebook
This birthday was almost perfect. A card from Mom was waiting for me in my room, and a box from Daddy. If only Carol was here to help me open it.
PLAYGROUND
Occasional rain showers
kept me from the playground.
“You will not be coming in here
with an asthma attack
or pneumonia!”
said Mrs. B.
In good weather, though,
I raced to the park
and staked my claim daily.
The swift play
of sailing down the sliding board
was always quick fun.
Hard pumping the swing
high enough
to scratch the sun
was a dream.
But the seesaw was the best,
me straddling one end,
Lori perched on the other,
both ready to test
how perfectly two friends
could push off the ground,
then spread our arms like eagles
skimming the air,
balanced there,
owning the moment,
sharing forever
in a smile.
ONE YEAR GONE
God deals days
like a deck of cards,
shuffling and counting out
kings, hearts, jokers
fast as lightning.
His hand is quicker
than my eye.
Notebook
How do blind people cross the street?
I honestly wanted to know, but just try getting an adult
to answer a question!
Since they were too busy today, I just closed my eyes
and stepped off the curb. Simple, right?
Mrs. B. sent me to the backyard for a switch.
My legs still sting. No more crossing the street
with my eyes closed.
Guess what, Sis? I’m in first grade, now.
I kind of like it. My friend, Lori, goes there, too.
My teacher taught us this French song.
“Alouette,” and we got to make a famous tower
out of pipe-cleaners. It’s called Eye-something,
and it’s in Paris. Where’s Paris?
Where are you?
WORD PLAY
Maybe it was my father’s
unlucky affection
for games of chance
that made me look askance
at losing.
Or maybe Sore Loser
was my middle name
from birth.
Either way,
words plucked randomly
from Webster’s
provided my preferred
mode of play
like the word dictionary:
dirt, diction, dairy, drain,
rain, train, ration,
road, toad,
yard.
Ditch Monopoly,
checkers, cards.
My game had no special name,
but I could play all day
and always come out
the winner.
Notebook
Mom’s all better now. She left the hospital months ago. She called, asking me to come and visit for the weekend. Half of me wants to. The other half isn’t so sure. The social worker says I’m lucky, that most kids like me have mothers who send them away and never look back. I guess he’s right, but I’m just starting to fit in here. When I get back, will I feel like a stranger again, starting over?
TRAIN TRIP
It was 1957, and the biggest worry
my guardians had was whether
I’d get off at the right station.
One word whispered to the conductor
was the easy solution.
Saying yes when
the social worker suggested
I travel to the city solo
was easy.
Lori said I was brave
to travel by myself,
but Pippi Longstocking
came along for the ride.
I loved the way the Hudson
churned the sun’s reflection
into ripples of light
as, nose pressed against the window,
I watched the landscape change.
The train squealed into
Grand Central Station soon enough,
and I disembarked,
keeping an eye out for Mom, who was
nowhere on the platform.
Impatient—an early trait—I dragged
my suitcase to the terminal on my own.
I set my patent-leather T-straps
inside the main terminal hall, and stalled.
A living, breathing whirligig of
dark-suited commuters
swirled around me,
newspapers pinned beneath their arms,
briefcases dangling at their sides.
As they hopped on and off of escalators
and sped toward the nearest exits,
I spun in their midst
desperate for a glimpse of my mother.
I’d have asked for help, but
everyone seemed in such a hurry.
“Mommy,” I whispered,
“where are you?”
Fear shrunk my bronchial tubes
to nothing,
and I started wheezing.
Squeezing my eyes tight,
I fought for breath.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Don’t cry, I told myself,
gripping the handle of my suitcase
because it was something solid
to hold on to.
“You look lost.” The kindly voice
belonged to a tall brown-skinned man
who suddenly towered over me.
“Can I help you?” he asked. My internal
don’t-talk-to-strangers warning device
did not deploy, but then again,
my world was full of strangers.
Still, I was wary. “I’m not lost,”
I told him.
“I know exactly where I am.”
He smiled and asked
if I was meeting anyone.
I nodded. “Your mother?”
Another nod.
“Mind if I wait with you?”
I shrugged. Stranger or no,
I welcomed the company.
His name was Mr. Clarke,
“Clarke with an e,”
he told me, then chatted on
to fill the silence.
“I know,” he said, finally out of steam.
“Let’s get you some ice cream.
Then I’ll look for your mother.”
He took me by the hand,
picked up my overnight bag
(only because I let him),
and steered me through that cavern
of marble, polished wood, and brass,
past a barbershop, newspaper vendor,
and shoeshine stand.
We stopped at a small café
inside the station
with ice cream on the menu.
He ordered two scoops,
got me seated,
said, “Wait right here,”
then disappeared.
I stared down at the double mound
of plain vanilla, thinking,
By the time I finish this,
Mom will be here.
To make certain of it,
I scooped up only half a teaspoon at a time,
and licked the sweet cream like
a sloth moving in slow motion.
One teaspoon left,
and still no Mom.
Angry, I scraped the bottom of the dish.
What if she doesn’t come?
What am I supposed to do, then?
Where am I supposed to go?
That’s when Mr. Clarke returned,
grinning, with my mom in tow.
She later told me how I’d cried,
but I only remember
assuring her that I was fine,
that Mr. Clarke had been kind.
He told Mom he had children of his own
and was happy to help.
Stranger or no, I’m
glad I let him.
Traveling solo turned out to be
trickier than I’d thought.
HOME
Yesterday,
it was Manhattan.
Today,
it’s Ossining.
In two weeks,
it will be Brooklyn.
Home may be
a four-letter word,
but it’s getting
harder and harder
to spell.
Notebook
I get to take the train to the city again tomorrow.
This time to see Daddy. Feels like it’s been forever.
Maybe I don’t need legs.
Maybe I’d do better with wheels.
That way, I could roll myself to the city
any time my parents
decide to call.
PIZZA
On my visits,
Daddy always took me out
for pizza.
Once, over dinner,
I asked him the question
I’d been thinking about forever.
“Daddy, why didn’t you
come for Carol and me?
Why did you let
the foster-care people
take us away?”
He dropped his eyes,
turned his face from me.
“I didn’t know how
to take care of little girls.
I thought you’d be better off
with a family who did.”
I wasn’t sure
what kind of answer that was,
but I couldn’t help thinking
maybe Carol and me
should’ve been little boys.
NINE-TO-FIVE
My father was a magician.
He would slide his bow across
the slender waist of his violin
with such a sweet caress,
both strings and hearts
would tremble.
From scroll to chin rest,
that brown body
belonged to him,
and the two of them
were glorious together.
But playing violin solos
and composing
original concertos
never paid his rent.
For that, Daddy depended on
a nine-to-five, working as a buyer
for a clothing factory.
Ordinary Hazards Page 4
