Before the Ever After(20)

My daddy looks at me.

Nods slowly. Says

I’d like that a whole lot, little man.

And smiles.





Maplewood Blues Song


Look at all those trees, little man.

That’s why I moved y’all here.

Look at all those trees, little man.

That’s why I moved y’all here.

And when the night falls on Maplewood, those trees just disappear.

I want to write a blues song, Daddy, and sing it just for you.

I said I want to write a blues song, Daddy, and sing it just for you.

The doctor said the music is

the only thing getting you through.

I look up at all those trees, Daddy, and it takes me back to the time.

I said when I look up at all those trees, Daddy, it sure takes me back to a time . . .

I don’t know how to finish this song.





Pigskin Dreams 2


Me, Ollie, Daniel and Darry are walking the trail.

A warm drizzle spraying around us and us slip-sliding on the leaves, fooling around.

I got one of my dad’s footballs under my arm and throw it long to Daniel, who snatches it with a high jump,

then lands like someone floating back to the ground.

There’s sun

behind him and I have to swallow cuz the beautifulness of it makes something in my throat jump.

Ever since I walked off the field all those weeks ago, I’ve been done with playing football, and my boys understand.

But still, we like to throw it. To run and catch it, to hug it to our chests

like one of our long-time-ago stuffed animals.

When we get deeper in the woods, we see Everett jogging toward us, dressed in a tracksuit, weights

around his wrists and ankles.

Hey, he says, out of breath.

Hey, we all say back.

Y’all about to play a game?

Nah. I quit football, I tell him.

I’m training, Everett says, holding up his wrists.

Weights supposed

to be good for resistance and whatnot.

We’re just walking and throwing the ball, Daniel says. Just hanging.

You can join us if you want.

Nah, Everett says. Gotta stay true to the course if I plan to go pro.

My boys look at me. At home, my dad is probably sitting at the window or in his room asleep. The new medicine he’s on makes him tired and groggy.

He walks like an old man now, his head down mostly, his feet dragging.

I toss the ball to Everett. Keep it, I say. It was my dad’s.

Everett’s eyes get wide. This is Zachariah 44’s ball?

I nod.

For real?

For real.

Daniel gives me a look like You crazy? But I ignore it.

Good luck, bruh, I say.

And the good luck means so many things I don’t know how to say.

So many things I wish my daddy could still understand.

Thank you so much, Everett says, looking at the ball like it’s the best present

anyone’s ever given him.

Then he waves goodbye to us, jogging off again, only this time a little faster.

And we go back to slipping and sliding on the leaves, trying to see who can slide the farthest without falling.





The Partridge Family


There was this song you used to always sing, Daddy, from when you were a little boy and you watched a show called The Partridge Family.

Whenever you told me about it, I thought about birds, a whole show about them.

Nah, nah, little man, you said. Show was about a family and they all sang together. And they had this big crazy-colored bus that

they took out on the road. And something always happened. Not a bad something. Just a something.

Then you’d start singing a song from the show that went I think I love you.

I think I love you!

You said our town, Maplewood, for some reason reminded you of that show.

So many trees up and down the block.

Linden and maple and oak and pine.

You said, I used to know all the names for all of them.

I just stared at them, listening to your voice.

Looked up to see you standing above me with your eyes closed

and such a huge smile on your face.

You told me Those were the good old days, little man.

You in front of your TV screen just singing along.

I asked you if that was before the pigskin dreams.

Nah, little man, you said. The pigskin dreams were always there.

I know I love you, Daddy.

I know I love you.





It’s All Gonna Be Right in the Morning


The crash comes late in the night.

I’m half asleep when I hear the glass, shattering once, then again as it’s falling.

I hear my mother screaming and run to their room, where my daddy is standing at the window, his arm through it, and cold air blowing in.

And then the sound of Mama on the phone and, somewhere far away, a siren coming closer all of it slow motion as my daddy turns, holds his cut hand

in his not-cut one. So much blood, so much glass, so much sadness in his eyes.

I have to get to that plane, he says again and again.

I have to get to that plane.

And then there are men in our house, in white a stretcher

voices coming through walkie-talkies cops again