Before the Ever After(8)

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, helps me think.

Tell me something, I finally say.

Tell me what’s happening with Dad.

Outside, a whole flock of sparrows cry out as they fly away, the sounds they make fading before my mom says

More doctors. More “It could be this, it could be that.”

I ask her Aren’t doctors supposed to be able to figure it out? And if they can’t, then how are they going to fix him?

He’s not broken, ZJ, my mom says back.

He’s just not himself right now.

When’s he gonna play ball again?

They don’t know.

When will his head stop hurting?

They don’t know.

When’s he gonna be himself again?

They don’t know.

I want to scream What do they know?!

But my mom is sipping her coffee.

One sugar, a little milk.

The birds have all flown off somewhere.

The kitchen is quiet as a prayer.

When I look at my mom again, her eyes are closed and her lips are moving, silently.

And then, almost too soft to hear but I hear it anyway, she says

In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.





Driving


The doctor said my dad

can’t drive anymore.

Now, when the weather’s real bad, Mama’s gonna have to drive me to school.

The doctor said to Daddy

Look on the bright side. You have this beautiful chauffeur.

Then he winked at Mama.

Look on the bright side, my daddy said back to the doctor.

You’re a total chauvinist.

Mama said she worked hard to hold herself together until they left that doctor’s office.

But when they got back in the car, she burst out laughing.

Zachariah Johnson! You made that poor man turn bright red!

Bet he’ll think twice, my daddy said, about what dumb thing he’s thinking about saying next time.

So even though the news about driving was terrible, the two of them

just sat there, laughing.





Call Me Little Man


The first time you forgot my name feels like yesterday. Feels like an hour ago.

Feels like I blink and you forgetting is right there in front of me.

Me and you were sitting at the dining room table doing a puzzle. Daddy, I said, your hand keeps shaking.

And you looked up at me, slowly. It was like your eyes lifted up first

and then the rest of your head followed.

I don’t really know how

to explain what I saw. The way everything seemed to slow-mo down

to nothing except your eyes