Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,24

rainbow

throw its color all over

that white room.

IN A FLASH

Prom night.

Put up my hair.

Put my dangly earrings on.

Step into my blue dress.

Dad says I look like a mermaid.

Mom takes pictures.

The mirror, like a camera,

freezes time in a flash,

catching all of us

inside of it

for one brief

moment.

ORION’S BELT

I.

Last year,

on the dance floor,

I twirled in,

Adam spun me out.

Tonight, I focus on Dylan.

Notice for the first time

a Saturn ring of yellow

surrounding the soft brown

of his eyes.

II.

At the after-prom party,

Adam and I

kept to ourselves.

We sipped Sprite,

toasted to summertime

while everyone else

cheered and clinked

glasses of champagne.

Tonight we take a limo

to a classmate’s beach house.

On the way—Dylan’s hand

on my leg, casually, like it’s always

been there. Chloe, in a pink slip dress,

with some new guy

who seems nicer than the others.

The air’s just warm enough

to roll down the windows,

stars blinking at us all the way

to the beach.

III.

My head spins

as Dylan and I lie

back in the grass

on the front lawn.

Dylan draws

small circles

on my inner

wrist.

My dad’s lived

six weeks more

than they said he would.

I say it twice.

The second time

a tear rolls down

my cheek.

He kisses

it

away.

Pointing up to the sky,

he traces Orion’s Belt

with his finger,

I grab it

when it comes back down.

He draws me in,

I don’t pull away.

BIRDS IN PARADISE

The next day,

high heels in hand,

Dylan’s tux jacket on,

home to find

Mom and Dad

in the living room,

sewing machine out.

Him hunched over it, stitching.

Her in a sea of fabrics

and feathers.

Mom said they decided

to make a costume together.

Just for fun.

I watch Dad press his foot on the pedal.

I watch Mom cut.

They argue over the true hue of chartreuse.

Laugh about the thunderstorm during the parade the year they met.

They work for hours.

April helps me make dinner.

When they’re done,

a mask of petals,

tail of stems,

Dad says it isn’t their finest work.

Mom agrees.

But I think it is.

RECORDING SESSION

June

SESSION EIGHT

Okay, Dad, it’s almost graduation.

Seven whole weeks past—

Doomsday.

Yeah.

So time for some real serious questions.

Uh-oh.

What’s the best meal you ever ate?

(Laughs)

Probably one I had in Italy one summer with your mother before you were born. It was the kind of meal that went on for hours.

What about your happiest childhood memory?

My mama teaching me to sew.

The time you felt most proud of yourself?

The day I was accepted to college.

And it’s almost your turn now.

No rush.

Not yet.

Nope—first you have to walk the stage.

(Long pause)

Dad, why are you crying?

Don’t worry, honey. These are happy tears.

ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS

I stand in a sea of black,

a group of graduates,

of smiles and sweat,

lining up,

marching forward, under

the brightest lights.

Chloe salutes me, flashes her Vans.

Dylan half smiles at me, I smile back.

We, the class of 1994,

face

the crowd.

A big-deal news reporter talks

about the opportunity

to go forth unafraid, follow your future,

trust your path, make

your way,

look back on this time and remember it was special.

Her voice floats away like

a drifting log

and all I can see is him:

smiling large,

bright blue eyes

focused right on me.

Dad Is Here.

I exhale deep as

he lifts his long, thin arm

and waves.

NEVER LETS GO

A few nights later,

Chloe and I

meet up with some other

girls from our class.

She wants us to try

to get into a dance club

to celebrate our independence.

Skirt flowing,

letting Chloe put toffee lipstick on me

when the phone rings.

Mom:

Dad

back in the hospital.

Chloe

forgets the club,

hails the cab,

comes to the hospital

and even though we aren’t dancing

she never lets go of my hand.

IN TUBES

April meets me in the lobby,

face wet, says he’s in Intensive Care,

I tell Chloe to go,

I’ll call with updates.

The fluorescent light

coats us, Dad back in tubes,

all of us in masks.

The monitor beeps.

Mom puts her hand on my back.

Pneumonia,

she says.

THE SOUND OF IT

Home for a few hours,

then in the morning,

back at the hospital.

James steps out,

gives April and me some time.

Mom spent the night last night,

asks if I want a turn.

Dad’s moved from Intensive Care

to a private room.

If it weren’t for his diaper, the IVs,

it could almost seem like a hotel.

I place an amethyst on his chest,

he smiles,

curls his fingers around it.

Says when he dies, he wants a party.

Nothing sad, he says, a celebration of life.

I tell him shhh,

ask if he wants to watch TV.

Hoarsely, he whispers

put on something brilliant.

Lucky for us,

Amadeus is on.

Mozart’s hands speeding

over the piano keys

as Salieri seethes

with jealousy.

Dad tries to conduct

a few times with his hands

but they are attached to

too many things.

A nurse comes in,

asks him to not move around

so much.

The credits roll as Mozart

releases his last

high-pitched cackle

over the screen’s darkness.

Dad laughs too.

I imagine the sound echoing

through the hospital hallways,

shaking the pill bottles

right off that nurse’s tray.

DECLARATION

The doctor says

there’s nothing more anyone can do.

He made it longer than they expected.

She’s sending him home to be comfortable, she says.

Though none of us say it,

his wheezing, coughing, skeletal body

shows us

what she really means.

CHECKMATE

Back in my parents’ bedroom.

Dad asks