his dad’s usually running late.
Used to be I said my dad was home and people would come running to my house.
Now it feels like they’re trying to run away.
Seems like he’s going through some things, Daniel says.
He unlocks his bike from the rack near the playground.
I gotta get home now, but I got you
if you ever want to talk.
My mama’s on me to clean my room, Ollie says.
I’ll come by with her tomorrow maybe.
Darry, he just shrugs. Says Wish I could.
It starts to drizzle. Starts to get colder too. Daniel shivers.
I say It’s cool, put my backpack on my shoulders. Watch them all walk the way I’m not walking. Wonder if our
Fridays together are some used-to-be thing now.
I’m good, I say. But it’s mostly a whisper.
And mostly not true.
See y’all, I say.
They all say Later, ZJ.
Walk their way and I walk mine.
Home from school is only eight blocks. The blocks aren’t that long to walk. Walking them alone on a Friday isn’t the worst thing.
There’s worse stuff.
Like the rain coming down faster now
and no hood on my jacket.
Water pouring down the back of my neck.
Above me, a sky full of clouds.
Deep Water
My grandma calls on Saturday night,
asks me about school
and when we’re coming to visit her—
Soon, I hope. I hold the phone close
to my ear, her voice so clear and soft,
it makes me think of everything and everyone I love.
She lives near Nana B, my dad’s mom,
in a house that has windows all around it and a pool
that she only dips her feet in
because you know I don’t like deep water,
my grandmother always says.
But the pool isn’t deep. When I stand in it,
the water only comes up to my chest.
I like being close to pools, my grandma says,
not in them.
Our pool in Maplewood is deeper than Grandma’s,
goes way over my head at the deepest end
but the shallow end only comes to my knees.
How’s your daddy doing? my grandma asks.
Any better?
I shrug, then, remembering my grandma can’t see me,
say No.
He says his head hurts all the time, I tell her.
He says some days he can’t even see straight.
After a minute, I say He’s missing a lot of his games.
I know, my grandmother says.
Maybe it’s for the best, though. He doesn’t need to
be running on that field if he can’t see straight.
But then what? I ask her.
What’s he gonna do if he can’t play?
Outside, the night is so dark, it looks like a black wall.
When I was a little kid acting crazy, Grandma
would say You’re about to get yourself in deep water, ZJ.
Deep water was trouble.
Deep water was a spanking from her.
Deep water was something I never wanted to be in.
Feels like we’re in deep water, Grandma, I say.
I hear my grandmother sigh. She’s quiet for a while.
Look on the bright side, she finally says.
Now there’s time for him
to bring you out here to see both your grandmas!
I hold the phone even closer to my ear, wanting
to hug her through it. Say
I just want him all better, Grandma.
And even though I know I sound like a little kid,
I say it anyway. I just want him to be Daddy again.
Thanks, Bruh
The doorbell rings late Sunday afternoon and it’s Daniel
standing there in his striped raincoat and blue rain boots,
shivering, his bike with the back wheel still spinning
lying on the lawn. I was thinking, he says, not even
all the way in yet but shaking out of his coat, about the time
when we first met. I don’t know why. Just came to my head.
He takes off his boots, leaves them by the door, follows
me into the living room, rubbing his wet face
with his shirt.
You were the one who said yeah.
Yeah about what?
The fireplace is going, and I’m working on a puzzle
in front of it. It’s a Yeti on top of a mountain, and so far
the Yeti’s head is done.
I sit back down on the floor on one side of it
and Daniel sits on the other, picks up a piece and stares at it.
You said yeah about racing.
I don’t know what Ollie or Darry would’ve said
but you said yeah.
I didn’t know who your daddy was or anything.
Not yet. And even after I found out,
all I really remember is that you were the first
one who said yes.
He finds a place for the puzzle piece and picks up another,
starts putting pieces together like he’s done this puzzle
a hundred times.
Daniel’s not smart like Ollie is. Not school smart.
He fails tests sometimes even
when he studies. But as we sit working
that puzzle and talking,
I realize that he’s a whole nother kind of smart.
He looks over at me and smiles.
The log in the fireplace crackles. Outside it rains and rains.
Daniel and me lean into that puzzle
for the rest of the afternoon.
Two-Hand Touch
I’m watching cartoons when Ollie calls me and
says everybody’s going to the park. You coming?
I’m still in my pj’s but get dressed real fast
and hop on my bike.
It’s sunny out, but cold. The park is crowded, though, and
it’s a minute before I see Ollie’s red Afro out on the field.
Darry’s there too and some other guys, and one of them tosses me the ball.
You got your daddy’s skills? Then I got you on my team.
I catch the ball in my stomach.
Let’s do two-hand touch, I say.
Tackle, the guy says.
I look at Ollie. He looks at me.
I throw the ball back at the guy.
Nah. Then I’m out, I tell him.
All right already, touch, then, the kid says.
Even though, he says, touch ain’t even really football.
From Outside
And some nights everything’s so good. There’s fish fried with cornmeal,
mashed potatoes and kale cooked with so much garlic
and olive oil, I go back for seconds and almost forget
it’s a vegetable.
There’s Daddy making Mama sit on his lap.
The two of them laughing
as the speakers blast Earth, Wind & Fire
all through the house, until the guy sings about
chasing the clouds away
and Daddy jumps up, still holding
Mama, and makes her dance with him.
They do old-people moves that look like they’re dancing to the words, not the music, but I can’t help dancing too
and from outside
or from somewhere far away maybe it looks
crazy and beautiful,
the house with the lights dimmed to gold and
the three of us moving through that light,
chasing the clouds away.
Migraine
Monday afternoon after school, I eat ten cookies standing at the sink,
wash it all down with one glass of milk and three glasses of water, run
to the bathroom because all that water goes right through me, come back
to the kitchen and microwave a beef patty. So hungry, I feel like I
could keep on eating, singing the song we learned in
chorus that day.
We come from the mountain,
living on the mountain.
Go back to the mountain,
turn the world around.
Me and Ollie laughed
the first time we sang it because the chorus teacher said
Ollie, you have such a beautiful alto voice!
and it’s kinda weird
when teachers compliment you
with words like beautiful. So Ollie started singing
in a high-pitched super-alto that made everyone laugh.
Except the teacher. She had to stop
the class to tell us why
the song was important
blah, blah, blah.
But now the song is in my head and I’m remembering
how nice it sounded when the
sopranos came in over the tenors and the basses
and the beautiful altos picked it all up.
I am singing when Mom tiptoes down the stairs,
tells me to stop singing so loud.
Your dad has a migraine, she says.
Another headache? I ask.
Mom nods. Takes the eleventh cookie out of my hand, says
Save room for dinner.
But I’m not hungry anymore. I’m scared.
My daddy was a mountain, a football star,
223 pounds of tight end.
My daddy was the world.
I want to go back to the mountain and
turn the world around.
Repetition
Even in songs, the lines keep repeating
and it’s okay. The chorus comes back around
like it’s making sure you understand
how important it is to the song’s story.
So how come when my dad repeats himself
it’s such a big deal? How come people
have to look at him all weird? How come
my mom has to say to him
Zachariah, you okay? You want to lie down awhile?
How come he has to look so confused and mad about it?
And yell I’m not crazy!?
How come it feels so scary?
How come it feels so scary?
Tests
The sun is bright on the morning
my mom tells me she’s taking Daddy
to the doctor for some tests.
It’s a Tuesday and I’m putting my lunch together
peanut butter and banana sandwich,
apple, fruit snacks, cookies.
My mom takes the cookies out, says After school.
When she turns her back,
I put them in my bag again.
What kind of tests?
For the headaches. She looks out the kitchen window.
And the memory stuff.
Guess they want to rule out dementia. I don’t know.
There’s a cardinal at the bird feeder,
then a sparrow comes and a yellow warbler.
When I was a little kid, I used to say What’s that and What’s that
and What’s that and my dad would tell me
the names of the birds.
When I asked him if they would survive
the winter, he’d always say
Of course they will. Mother Nature’s got their backs.
Now I want to ask again, say What’s that
only not about birds this time.
What I really want to ask is
Are the doctors gonna make him better?
and hear my mother say
Of course, ZJ. Mother Nature’s got his back.
The Trees
Maple’s what we call the oak tree in front of the house.
It was Dad who decided to call an oak tree Maple.
There’s another one—a birch he named Sweet Pine.
And out past the garage is a crab apple tree.
He wanted to call it Peaches but I said Nah, Daddy.
Let’s just call that one Crabby.
And in winter, when Crabby’s branches are getting beat
down by a cold wind,
I wonder if she’s upset no one
covered her up with a tree blanket.
It was me who decided Crabby and Maple and Sweet Pine were girls.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because of that book we used to read you,
my daddy said.
The one about the tree that keeps giving up
everything she has.
But I shook my head. I’d never want a tree to do that.
I’d never ask that of anything. Or anybody.
Daddy has to stop playing football until the doctors know
what’s going on with his head.
Some days he seems just like that tree.
Like he’s not his whole self anymore. Like one by one
somebody or something
took his branches.
Daydreams
In class, from somewhere far away
I hear
someone calling my name.
I mean, I only sort of hear it
because I’m not really there.
Outside the classroom window, the sky
goes on and on and on, and
I’m wondering what happens beyond it.
Is that heaven up there?
And all the people
who left us, are they really walking around
and looking down? And if they are—
what do they see?
Last night I found my mom outside
standing on the deck, looking up at the sky.
Are you counting stars? I asked.
No, she said. I’m looking for God.
If anyone has any answers, I guess God would.
ZJ, can you hear me?!
I jump in my seat, look toward the front of the room,
where my teacher is staring at me.
Welcome back from the World of Daydreams, she says.
So glad to have you with us.
Says Those fractions up on the board
aren’t going anywhere—they’re just waiting for you to
divide them.
Middle of the Night
Down the hall I can hear my daddy moaning, saying
My head. My head, Lisa. It hurts so bad. Hurts
so bad.
Then hear my mother going downstairs.
I get out of bed, tiptoe down behind her,
the house cold and me
in just pajamas and no robe.
The kitchen tile freezing my feet.
Is Daddy gonna be okay? I ask,
and my mama jumps, says
ZJ! You scared me into next week.
Look at me standing there in Tuesday.
Stop playing, Mama, but like always, she makes me smile
a little.
Is he?
Mama turns back to the sink, fills the kettle with water,
puts it on the stove.
Of course, she says.
Your dad’s going to be fine.
But she doesn’t look at me. Then she does,
and reaches to hug me.
I don’t know, ZJ. I really don’t.
I whisper into her arm I’m scared.
Me too, she whispers back, then kisses the top of my head.
We stay like that.
Upstairs my daddy moans and moans.
And soon the teakettle joins him.
And Then There’s the Morning
There’s a song I wrote that starts that way.
It goes,
And then there’s the morning
when my cereal’s cold
and the new day feels old
and I’m missing my stuffed animals
because I’m too big, I’m told.
And then there’s the morning
where my shoes feel too small
but seems I’ll never get tall
want to run away from it all.
And then there’s the morning.
And then there’s the morning.
After I sing And then there’s the morning the final time
I play a riff on my guitar, kinda slow, blues—like
I’m real deep in thought around all the things
I’m worrying about.
And then there’s the morning
when the sun comes out again
I have boys I call friends
know the bad times will one day end.
Can’t wait for that morning.
I can’t wait . . .
for that morning.
Prayer
Right after I come into the house, I take off my shoes,
walk into the kitchen for a glass of milk
and a candy bar. I hear
Daddy’s bare feet on the stairs,
walking right on by without even asking
How was your day, little man?
Hear his bedroom door slam.
Want to run up the stairs after him
want to grab him, say
Dad, come back down. Hug me.
Ask me about my day,
like you used to.
Then Mom is in the kitchen,
getting her afternoon coffee, the pot
bubbling while we sit silently eating tiny pieces
of candy to make the sweetness last.
She only eats candy bars
when she’s worrying. Chocolate, she says,