Before the Ever After(16)

And I kept saying to him Be safe, Daddy. Daddy, be safe.

But he just kept on running.

Kept on tackling.

Kept on going.

For me.

For me.

For me.





Down the Hall from My Room


Down the hall from my room, there’s a guest room with a bed, a dresser and a wall

full of black-and-white pictures.

There’s me as a little baby

in Mom’s arms with Daddy looking on, his grin so wide, my mom says it looks like he ate the moon and it came shining back out.

There’s Daddy in his football uniform, down on one knee, his helmet in his hand, looking straight at the camera all serious

like he wants to get the picture over with already and get in the game.

Another one of his team—Uncle Joe and Uncle Eddy, and another player everybody just called Slide.

Cuz he never ran across the field, Daddy said.

He just slid his way past other players and slid into every single touchdown.

There’s a picture of Mom and Dad that I took, looking up at them.

Giants smiling down at the camera.

That’s my favorite, my mom says, appearing beside me.

Then we’re standing in front of all the pictures, her holding my hand.

I know mostly I’m too old to be standing in a guest room with my mom holding my hand.

But sometimes, I’m not.

Sometimes, this is just a beautiful moment, me and Mom in the quiet house with

all these before pictures looking back at us reminding us there was another time.

Look at you there, my mom says, laughing.

In the picture, I’m climbing behind the couch, and all you can see is half my body, a chocolate cookie in my hand.

You thought you were slick, my mom says.

You thought you could hide. And even though I caught you on camera, you still swore it wasn’t your hand.

It wasn’t, I say, smiling up at her.

That was some other kid. That doesn’t even look like my hand!

I say this same thing every time.

And every single time,

my mom just starts cracking up like

it’s the first time she’s hearing it.





A Future with Me in It


At both grandmas’ houses there are also rows and rows of photos of me. Kindergarten with my two front teeth missing.

Second grade with me, Darry, Daniel and Ollie all in the same class—Ollie sitting down on the floor with the other little kids because he hadn’t gotten tall yet.

There are pictures of me with my dad, my mom, the whole family, even the grandmas and my auntie at a castle in Spain. Pictures of me with water wings and me without them when I finally learned how to swim.

And each year, some more pictures get added, my mom finding the perfect frame, and me a little taller and hopefully with a better haircut going up on the wall.

And I bet that one day, when I’m all grown and in my own house,

I’ll still be on these walls— licking an ice cream cone, with a lame haircut,

looking good in a new suit, smiling with my arms

around my boys.

I’ll still be on these walls making Mama and everyone else too smile

and remember.





Audition


One day, my daddy says, his face half shaved and his robe still on,

I’m going to be in commercials.

On the television a famous football player is selling hotel rooms, and

I’m remembering the time we watched this old friend of my dad’s

shoot a commercial. It was about shaving cream.

I watched him

rub it on his face, then take the razor to it.

He was supposed to look

like he’d just stepped out of the shower, so the camera people

sprayed water all over his face and chest. Then put a towel around his neck.

He didn’t have on a shirt but he was wearing pants, down below where the camera wasn’t going.

That’s going to be me someday, ZJ, my dad would say, making commercials about cars and shaving cream and maybe even fancy hotels.

And now he’s sitting here and saying it again, not remembering

last year when he finally went for an audition.

He only had to say one line: I’m Zachariah Johnson, and this is my car.

Then he was supposed to open the door of a fancy blue car and smile as he stepped inside.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, had on his Super Bowl ring and the watch Mama gave him for his thirtieth birthday.

But he kept freezing. Standing there by that car like he didn’t know where he was supposed to be or what he was supposed to say.

I watched him from the place they made me stand back behind the camera.

I wanted to scream the line to him. To shout it loud as I could.

I wanted to say it for him if he needed me to.

The guy next to me was holding a big poster with my daddy’s line on it,

but still, my daddy couldn’t say it.

He couldn’t say it.

Take 1

take 2

take 3

all the way up to

take 72

and by then

my daddy’s head was hurting.

By then the director was saying Let’s call it a day, rubbing his hand over his face like he was the most tired man in the world.