Clap When You Land(24)

I try to make them pick up a pencil as I sign myself out.

I try to open my locker to remove my books.

I try to keep them from trembling.

But they only shake lightly at my side, & it’s Dre who murmurs & reminds me I can do this. Keep on breathing, I mean, when it feels like the littlest thing is too much work.

I guess I keep hoping if I just don’t move at all it’ll hurt less when the memory barges into me: It has been three weeks.

I do not have a father anymore.





Insurance representatives for the airline come to the house.

Tío Jorge & Tía Mabel are already here.

Although Tío Jorge practiced law in the Dominican Republic, I still think we should have a lawyer who practices here, but no one listens to me.

The airline representatives open a folder & list the initial findings from the National Transportation Safety Board.

I make sure to memorize the name

of the organization that will investigate what happened.

When the reps are done, they look expectantly at us.

Tío Jorge grabs the report & walks to the kitchen window, reading in the light of the setting sun. Mami looks at me & I know she wants me to translate; she didn’t catch every word.

“Dinero,” I tell her softly. An advance payment, to be exact.

So many dollars they’ve knotted around my father’s life.

“Un medio million,” Tío Jorge whispers.

No one else says a word. Mami begins to weep while drilling a manicured nail into the wooden table until the sound feels like it’s puncturing my ear, & I put my hand over hers.





The airline representatives

say don’t say grievance. grieve.

say don’t say unprecedented. crash.

say don’t say mechanical failure. dead.

say don’t say pilot error. dad.

say don’t say insurance policy. papi.

say don’t say advance compensation. his name.

say don’t say accident. sorry.

say “say

loss. sorry.”

I say:

“Say you’re sorry.”





Things you can buy with half a million dollars: a car that looks more

like a space creature than a car.

A designer platinum purse

to carry a small dog. A small dog.

A performance by your favorite musical artist for your birthday.

A diamond-encrusted

bottle of Dominican rum.

A mansion. A yacht. A hundred acres of land. Houses, but not homes.

All four years of college

or beautician school & certificate.

Five hundred flights

to the Dominican Republic.

A half million Dollar Store chess sets, with their accompanying boxes.

A hundred thousand copies of Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Apparently a father.





Money like this makes me think

of a game show.

& I wish

I could phone a friend or use a lifeline.

I wish a smiling host would pat my hand & have me crowdsource the audience for answers

on what to guess next.

A half million dollars is more than my dad ever made,

more than Mami or I can begin to understand.





Tío Jorge says we should still sue the airline.

Tío Jorge says

it might take years, but we are due a settlement.

Tío Jorge says

he can handle the finances.

Tío Jorge says

he can sell the billiards.

Tío Jorge says

he can open me a trust fund so the money is saved.

Tío Jorge says

he can hire a financial advisor, or accountant.

Tío Jorge says

we need to set money aside for taxes.

Tío Jorge says

this should help with the funeral expenses.

Tío Jorge says

we shouldn’t tell the rest of the family.

Tío Jorge says—





Mami cuts him off: “Jorge. You were your brother’s consentido.

& I appreciate your advice.

But the one who needed it was him, & you didn’t offer it when he was here.”

I look from Mami to Tío Jorge trying to understand what isn’t being said.

Did Mami know about the certificate?

Did Tío? Mami must realize how harsh she sounds because she flattens her hands on her thighs.

“I just . . . what I mean is,

Yahaira & I will figure this out on our own.”

I’ve never heard Mami

be so brisk with Tío Jorge.

Tía Mabel lowers her eyes;

she traces the lines of wood on the kitchen table.

Tío Jorge seals his lips like an envelope & silently exits the room.





There is a community garden around the corner

where I know I’ll find Dre

if she’s not home

or answering her phone.

That is her happy place,

& since she is mine

I walk there & sit on a bench.

I watch her long bent back,

the bright purple cap