or even on staff,
but my ideas
sparkle and light up
the pages.
I know, in a small way, I
helped make
something
lasting.
I carry a small rainbow flag in my pocket,
the one Dad held during the Walk.
Tell Chloe
I have to go
somewhere alone,
I’m okay.
When I get there,
use my old key.
Sit down at that long white counter.
Open the drawer.
Take a minute to
sort the paper clips
from the tacks
from the erasers.
Then, go to the yearbooks,
and next to the spine of the 1976 edition,
I stick in the tiny flag.
Watch the rainbow
throw its color all over
that white room.
IN A FLASH
Prom night.
Put up my hair.
Put my dangly earrings on.
Step into my blue dress.
Dad says I look like a mermaid.
Mom takes pictures.
The mirror, like a camera,
freezes time in a flash,
catching all of us
inside of it
for one brief
moment.
ORION’S BELT
I.
Last year,
on the dance floor,
I twirled in,
Adam spun me out.
Tonight, I focus on Dylan.
Notice for the first time
a Saturn ring of yellow
surrounding the soft brown
of his eyes.
II.
At the after-prom party,
Adam and I
kept to ourselves.
We sipped Sprite,
toasted to summertime
while everyone else
cheered and clinked
glasses of champagne.
Tonight we take a limo
to a classmate’s beach house.
On the way—Dylan’s hand
on my leg, casually, like it’s always
been there. Chloe, in a pink slip dress,
with some new guy
who seems nicer than the others.
The air’s just warm enough
to roll down the windows,
stars blinking at us all the way
to the beach.
III.
My head spins
as Dylan and I lie
back in the grass
on the front lawn.
Dylan draws
small circles
on my inner
wrist.
My dad’s lived
six weeks more
than they said he would.
I say it twice.
The second time
a tear rolls down
my cheek.
He kisses
it
away.
Pointing up to the sky,
he traces Orion’s Belt
with his finger,
I grab it
when it comes back down.
He draws me in,
I don’t pull away.
BIRDS IN PARADISE
The next day,
high heels in hand,
Dylan’s tux jacket on,
home to find
Mom and Dad
in the living room,
sewing machine out.
Him hunched over it, stitching.
Her in a sea of fabrics
and feathers.
Mom said they decided
to make a costume together.
Just for fun.
I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.
I watch Mom cut.
They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.
Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.
They work for hours.
April helps me make dinner.
When they’re done,
a mask of petals,
tail of stems,
Dad says it isn’t their finest work.
Mom agrees.
But I think it is.
RECORDING SESSION
June
SESSION EIGHT
Okay, Dad, it’s almost graduation.
Seven whole weeks past—
Doomsday.
Yeah.
So time for some real serious questions.
Uh-oh.
What’s the best meal you ever ate?
(Laughs)
Probably one I had in Italy one summer with your mother before you were born. It was the kind of meal that went on for hours.
What about your happiest childhood memory?
My mama teaching me to sew.
The time you felt most proud of yourself?
The day I was accepted to college.
And it’s almost your turn now.
No rush.
Not yet.
Nope—first you have to walk the stage.
(Long pause)
Dad, why are you crying?
Don’t worry, honey. These are happy tears.
ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS
I stand in a sea of black,
a group of graduates,
of smiles and sweat,
lining up,
marching forward, under
the brightest lights.
Chloe salutes me, flashes her Vans.
Dylan half smiles at me, I smile back.
We, the class of 1994,
face
the crowd.
A big-deal news reporter talks
about the opportunity
to go forth unafraid, follow your future,
trust your path, make
your way,
look back on this time and remember it was special.
Her voice floats away like
a drifting log
and all I can see is him:
smiling large,
bright blue eyes
focused right on me.
Dad Is Here.
I exhale deep as
he lifts his long, thin arm
and waves.
NEVER LETS GO
A few nights later,
Chloe and I
meet up with some other
girls from our class.
She wants us to try
to get into a dance club
to celebrate our independence.
Skirt flowing,
letting Chloe put toffee lipstick on me
when the phone rings.
Mom:
Dad
back in the hospital.
Chloe
forgets the club,
hails the cab,
comes to the hospital
and even though we aren’t dancing
she never lets go of my hand.
IN TUBES
April meets me in the lobby,
face wet, says he’s in Intensive Care,
I tell Chloe to go,
I’ll call with updates.
The fluorescent light
coats us, Dad back in tubes,
all of us in masks.
The monitor beeps.
Mom puts her hand on my back.
Pneumonia,
she says.
>
THE SOUND OF IT
Home for a few hours,
then in the morning,
back at the hospital.
James steps out,
gives April and me some time.
Mom spent the night last night,
asks if I want a turn.
Dad’s moved from Intensive Care
to a private room.
If it weren’t for his diaper, the IVs,
it could almost seem like a hotel.
I place an amethyst on his chest,
he smiles,
curls his fingers around it.
Says when he dies, he wants a party.
Nothing sad, he says, a celebration of life.
I tell him shhh,
ask if he wants to watch TV.
Hoarsely, he whispers
put on something brilliant.
Lucky for us,
Amadeus is on.
Mozart’s hands speeding
over the piano keys
as Salieri seethes
with jealousy.
Dad tries to conduct
a few times with his hands
but they are attached to
too many things.
A nurse comes in,
asks him to not move around
so much.
The credits roll as Mozart
releases his last
high-pitched cackle
over the screen’s darkness.
Dad laughs too.
I imagine the sound echoing
through the hospital hallways,
shaking the pill bottles
right off that nurse’s tray.
DECLARATION
The doctor says
there’s nothing more anyone can do.
He made it longer than they expected.
She’s sending him home to be comfortable, she says.
Though none of us say it,
his wheezing, coughing, skeletal body
shows us
what she really means.
CHECKMATE
Back in my parents’ bedroom.
Dad asks me to promise
I will take a road trip someday.
Drive it all by myself.
That I will learn to play chess.
I say I promise;
he closes his eyes.
I lie down next to him.
For this moment,
we are both
still and
breathing.
THROUGH WINDOWS
April and I take turns
spooning Dad broth
from a blue ceramic bowl.
No more herbs.
No more custard apple.
Crystals just sitting
on the windowsill,
blinking their light.
No more Gloria,
just hospice workers.
Other teens at the beach,
tanning, flipping magazines.
April and I home,
feeding Dad:
The only sun
on our faces
sliced in
through
half-open
windows.
FROM DULL TO LIGHT
We all go to him.
His eyes move from dull
to light
when I tell him
we made something
all of us—together—
for him.
I press play.
What do you love about Dad? I ask.
Mom answers:
His generosity. His belief in second chances.
And April:
The way he used to tuck me in.
Made me feel safe.
Me:
How he hums while he cooks.
And James:
His laugh. So deep and contagious.
Mom:
His creative spirit.
April:
How he’ll talk to anyone on the street.
Me:
How he always knows his opinion.
James:
He lectures and people listen.
Mom:
His creations.
April:
How excited he gets about what he loves.
Me:
How he’s always been there for me.
What will you miss most about Dad?
April:
I will miss his hugs.
Mom:
I will miss his smile.
James:
I will miss his eyes.
Me:
I will miss his voice.
I shut off the tape.
All of us crying,
Dad telling us
not to worry,
all four of us
at once.
MORPHINE DREAMS
We take turns sitting with him,
the next few days.
Doped up on morphine,
his words cut
from a collage of dreams:
Stir the gravy—quick!
Your mother, with wings.
Marching, lights from sequins.
She was born with her arms open.
Red to purple to white.
A party in the street.
Class, turn to page 35.
Wondrous creatures—
COMA
In Astronomy,
a coma is the glowing gas cloud
around
the comet’s nucleus.
At home,
a coma is something Dad has
fallen into.
Holding his cold hand
watching his
heavy shell of a body
drag breaths
wondering
what’s still
inside of him
what has already
floated up
and out.
I want to scream
I’m sorry.
Sorry for wasting
so much time.
Not being with him.
Sorry for not
being more forgiving.
Not ready
to say goodbye.
Not knowing how
this kind of pain
ever
floats away.
THROUGH TEARS
James says his goodbye first.
He carries Don Quixote.
He blasts La Traviata.
April and I watch a 90210 repeat,
try not to listen.
When he comes out,
April says
she’s so sorry
the herbs,
the plan
didn’t work.
James says,
through tears,
It worked—
as much as anything could have.
He takes something from his pocket,
pours some water.
Moves hand to mouth quickly.
Swallows.
Selenium.
GATHERING
Flip off the TV.
Listen:
April’s goodbye.
Look out the window
at all that new green life.
She tells him in Eng
lish,
then in Spanish,
she won’t give up fighting.
When she leaves the room,
I gather her in my arms,
limb over limb,
run my hand through
her new short hair,
realize that
when I wasn’t looking
she sprouted inches
taller than me.
THROUGH GASPS
Linger in the doorway,
listen:
Mom’s goodbye.
She holds their flower costume
like a child and her blankie.
Talks about their Bermuda vacation,
white sands, turquoise water,
how they held each other on that beach
for hours. How tall he was, strong.
She says:
I will do my best to take care of these girls—
our girls—
the way you did, Dale.
Then, she says—
through gasps—
she will think of him
and try harder.
Dad’s raspy breath
uneven now.
I walk back through the hall,
sign my name with my finger
on the cold, white wall.
SPINNING CLOUD OF LIGHT
White sheets contain his coma.
I hold his legs, cry into them
until there’s nothing left of me,
let out all that I’ve been keeping in.
Match his dragging breaths.
In a spinning cloud of light
I promise him:
I will create something
of meaning.
I will add to the story.
I will ask for help when I need it.
I will not stay silent.
I say goodbye.
THE NEUTRAL, YELLOW
DARK
Candlelight floats over the bed.
New Jersey skyline blinks
out the window.
Dad lets out his last breath.
I kneel at his body.
Mom and James
decide to keep him all night.
A thin strip
of white moon
hides behind a building.
April and I sleep—
curled into each other
like puppies.
SILVER, EMPTY
The next day
we stare at
Dazed and Confused,
Skyscraping Page 12
