Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,25
me to promise
I will take a road trip someday.
Drive it all by myself.
That I will learn to play chess.
I say I promise;
he closes his eyes.
I lie down next to him.
For this moment,
we are both
still and
breathing.
THROUGH WINDOWS
April and I take turns
spooning Dad broth
from a blue ceramic bowl.
No more herbs.
No more custard apple.
Crystals just sitting
on the windowsill,
blinking their light.
No more Gloria,
just hospice workers.
Other teens at the beach,
tanning, flipping magazines.
April and I home,
feeding Dad:
The only sun
on our faces
sliced in
through
half-open
windows.
FROM DULL TO LIGHT
We all go to him.
His eyes move from dull
to light
when I tell him
we made something
all of us—together—
for him.
I press play.
What do you love about Dad? I ask.
Mom answers:
His generosity. His belief in second chances.
And April:
The way he used to tuck me in.
Made me feel safe.
Me:
How he hums while he cooks.
And James:
His laugh. So deep and contagious.
Mom:
His creative spirit.
April:
How he’ll talk to anyone on the street.
Me:
How he always knows his opinion.
James:
He lectures and people listen.
Mom:
His creations.
April:
How excited he gets about what he loves.
Me:
How he’s always been there for me.
What will you miss most about Dad?
April:
I will miss his hugs.
Mom:
I will miss his smile.
James:
I will miss his eyes.
Me:
I will miss his voice.
I shut off the tape.
All of us crying,
Dad telling us
not to worry,
all four of us
at once.
MORPHINE DREAMS
We take turns sitting with him,
the next few days.
Doped up on morphine,
his words cut
from a collage of dreams:
Stir the gravy—quick!
Your mother, with wings.
Marching, lights from sequins.
She was born with her arms open.
Red to purple to white.
A party in the street.
Class, turn to page 35.
Wondrous creatures—
COMA
In Astronomy,
a coma is the glowing gas cloud
around
the comet’s nucleus.
At home,
a coma is something Dad has
fallen into.
Holding his cold hand
watching his
heavy shell of a body
drag breaths
wondering
what’s still
inside of him
what has already
floated up
and out.
I want to scream
I’m sorry.
Sorry for wasting
so much time.
Not being with him.
Sorry for not
being more forgiving.
Not ready
to say goodbye.
Not knowing how
this kind of pain
ever
floats away.
THROUGH TEARS
James says his goodbye first.
He carries Don Quixote.
He blasts La Traviata.
April and I watch a 90210 repeat,
try not to listen.
When he comes out,
April says
she’s so sorry
the herbs,
the plan
didn’t work.
James says,
through tears,
It worked—
as much as anything could have.
He takes something from his pocket,
pours some water.
Moves hand to mouth quickly.
Swallows.
Selenium.
GATHERING
Flip off the TV.
Listen:
April’s goodbye.
Look out the window
at all that new green life.
She tells him in English,
then in Spanish,
she won’t give up fighting.
When she leaves the room,
I gather her in my arms,
limb over limb,
run my hand through
her new short hair,
realize that
when I wasn’t looking
she sprouted inches
taller than me.
THROUGH GASPS
Linger in the doorway,
listen:
Mom’s goodbye.
She holds their flower costume
like a child and her blankie.
Talks about their Bermuda vacation,
white sands, turquoise water,
how they held each other on that beach
for hours. How tall he was, strong.
She says:
I will do my best to take care of these girls—
our girls—
the way you did, Dale.
Then, she says—
through gasps—
she will think of him
and try harder.
Dad’s raspy breath
uneven now.
I walk back through the hall,
sign my name with my finger
on the cold, white wall.
SPINNING CLOUD OF LIGHT
White sheets contain his coma.
I hold his legs, cry into them
until there’s nothing left of me,
let out all that I’ve been keeping in.
Match his dragging breaths.
In a spinning cloud of light
I promise him:
I will create something
of meaning.
I will add to the story.
I will ask for help when I need it.
I will not stay silent.
I say goodbye.
THE NEUTRAL, YELLOW
DARK
Candlelight floats over the bed.
New Jersey skyline blinks
out the window.
Dad lets out his last breath.
I kneel at his body.
Mom and James
decide to keep him all night.
A thin strip
of white moon
hides behind a building.
April and I sleep—
curled into each other
like puppies.
SILVER, EMPTY
The next day
we stare at
Dazed and Confused,
Sixteen Candles.
The undertakers go in and out
of my parents’ bedroom.
They speak softly,
finally
carry him out
in a black body bag.
I think about
the hallway mirror,
a silent, sturdy witness:
It’s seen
Dad making costumes,
helping us with our homework,
me sneaking in late,
fighting,
now
the mirror—
reflecting, empty—
watches
him go.
WHAT’S FALLING
I dream.
I enter the bus.
I see him.
He’s in my regular seat,
wrapped in a brown, fur-lined coat.
Thin blond hair matted against his head.
He could have been somebody, I think.
I sit next to him,
feel him shiver.
His head bent forward.
I can see now, he’s hiding something.
I ask him what he has.
He shakes his head no.
Bites his chapped lips.
Whole body starts to tremble.
I think about pulling the emergency cord—
no one else notices he’s shaking.
There’s a man in a suit. A baby on a lap.
Preteen girls playing MASH.
Someone listening to a Walkman loudly.
Why can’t they see him?
His