Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,19

go, a last plea,

that she’s here

if I need her.

Before I go,

think of Dad,

will myself

to stop and

look up

into her eyes,

surprised

to find some kindness

floating in them.

I

take a deep breath and

ask—

tears unexpectedly forming

in the corners of my eyes—

if when I’m gone

she’ll be here

something

suspended, strong

able to help

my sister.

WHAT THEY THINK

I.

Almost two days since the test,

three since Adam freaked out on me,

and since I lost my virginity.

At least none of us have shown any sign of TB,

wonder what James’s skin would show,

wonder if he’s sick.

After school,

we sit in the waiting room,

the nurse wheels Dad

down the hall.

Tall, blond,

all cheekbones,

clothes hang off him.

Two lesions on his forehead.

A disease that hides,

then eats people alive.

We follow behind,

past a child with a broken leg,

a pregnant woman breathing loudly.

II.

Outside.

Several empty cabs pass us by.

Do they see the lesions? Are they scared?

One stops.

I wonder,

does the driver care that Dad’s here,

breathing, in his space?

III.

We struggle into the lobby,

James holding up one side of Dad,

Mom, the other.

We share the elevator

with the woman from 14B.

She doesn’t look at Dad.

Doesn’t look at his lesions

or his skinny, bruised arms,

the way he cannot hold himself up.

She ignores all of us.

Finally, home.

Dad looks at his nightstand,

scattered with crystals—

blinking hopes of healing—

his own shelf of tiny purple cities.

Says okay, he’ll try the herbs.

Relief and fear

pulse through my veins.

April smiles wide.

Mom tells us nice work, they’re beautiful,

fetches Dad tissues for his coughing,

James rests in the reading chair,

Dad lays down to sleep.

HOW MUCH TIME

WANING GIBBOUS MOON, 20 DAYS LEFT

Next day, in the cafeteria,

pick at a bagel, Chloe and Dylan

at the diner together.

I would’ve gone too

if I could find the courage to tell them:

My dad is really sick.

He has less than

three weeks left.

I take deep breaths,

eat small bites,

don’t think about how much time I’ve wasted

hurting rather than helping.

After school, after Peer Mentorship,

Gloria’s coming.

After school, a plan.

Focus in on Dad,

while there’s time.

CONSUMING

Dad, head in Mom’s lap,

her reading The Byzantine Empire aloud.

She’s got tissues, water glass, pill.

April and Gloria come in together,

we all gather round.

Gloria says TB

used to be called consumption,

it consumed from within.

Says we need to strengthen the body,

the lungs specifically,

thank goodness, she says,

Dad doesn’t have pneumonia too.

She says he needs more vitamin D

to help slow the progression of KS,

acupuncture can help with that too.

I take notes as she speaks.

She pulls out more bottles:

Astragalus. Mint. Green tea.

Then: bananas, oranges, pineapple juice.

Dad raises his eyebrows,

we catch a smile between us,

a New Age Mary Poppins,

Gloria with her big black bag of remedies.

She asks if we’ve ever

heard of custard apple,

breaks open a green pale bumpy fruit

with her hands.

Tells April to fetch a spoon for Dad.

As he tries this strange fruit, the herbs, the juice,

I wonder if we can stop time from consuming him,

consuming us.

I wonder if we try hard enough,

we can stop time

from flying.

THE HOURGLASS

Days march on

grains mount

pills swallowed

breathe in

out

tick

tock

try to slow

the falling

sands.

BLUESHIFT

Mr. Lamb says a blueshift means

that an object is moving toward

the observer.

The larger the blueshift,

the faster the object is moving.

Time is only speeding up.

The principal and I have

a disciplinary check-in.

When I get there, it isn’t just her—

Mom’s there

in a dark blue suit,

pen and notepad ready,

like she’s auditioning

for the role of a sitcom mom.

The principal says

according to teachers

I’ve been coming to class,

turning in homework,

I seem to be back on track.

Mom apologizes for my past behavior,

says that this year’s been stressful,

that Dad’s been given very little time.

I tell the principal that she doesn’t have to worry,

that I know life is precious,

I want a future I can be proud of.

The principal shakes my hand,

says she’s glad to have me back,

hopes my dad gets stronger soon.

I look at Mom, who smirks a little,

both of us wondering what part of

very little time

the principal doesn’t understand.

Mom, in blue, comes closer still

like she wants to hug me goodbye.

I let her touch my shoulder,

wonder if someday soon

I’ll feel like moving closer.

BECAUSE THE PEOPLE INSIDE IT ARE

That night Mom, still in her suit,

asks if she can come in,

sits on my bed.

I shrug. Turn a bit in my windowseat.

She says she wants to tell me something:

She didn’t only go to Italy for work,

she left because Dad fell so hard for James,

she didn’t know how to exist

on the periphery of their love.

She says Italy was amazing, she learned

more during that year abroad than she had in her

whole life as an artist. But when she got

that call from Dad

she gave it all up.

I came home when he got sick.

I came home because he needed me.

Then I knew, someday, we’d be sitting here.

Counting time.

I look at her.

I came back to be with you.

To be with your