Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,26

body shakes, I try and hold him still.

But he’s too big. Too long. Items fall

from his coat.

A diploma.

A poem.

A chess piece.

A feather.

I pick them up, stuff them into

my backpack. His whole body now

shaking, trembling, dying.

There’s nothing to do but

collect what’s falling.

A tie.

A bead.

A slotted spoon.

A sandwich.

I say loudly,

to deaf ears:

He could have been someone.

I yell until the bus stops.

I wake up screaming.

SOMETHING SOLID

The wake.

His mouth’s been stuffed.

It looks all wrong.

Like a B actor cast

to play my father.

I dare myself to touch his face.

It feels like wood,

or colder,

like glass.

Chloe gets me some food,

I pick at it.

I think about Dylan.

About Existentialism.

All those philosophers saying there’s

nothing out there to believe in.

And how making something meaningful

was so important to my dad.

But now he’s gone.

Now, he’s the nothing.

Dylan shows up, as if he knows

I’m thinking about him.

He takes my hand.

I let myself lean into him.

To feel something warm.

The crowd swells

and he knows

I need to leave it.

He pulls me to

the coats and we huddle

under them.

We don’t kiss.

We don’t even talk.

We just play hangman.

He names the category:

Space.

NOTHINGNESS

So many people attend the funeral.

Our teachers, his students,

neighbors, friends.

Chloe points out Adam,

standing with his parents,

they sneak out the back

as soon as it’s over.

I greet the others person by person,

kiss cheeks,

nod, say thanks

when people say sorry.

After everyone leaves,

April, Chloe, Dylan and I

gather the programs

left behind,

scattered like this was a play—

a concert—abandoned

just after the encore.

At home,

I stack the programs neatly.

Try to iron out the creases

left

on the copies of his face.

NIGHTTIME

We went to Zabar’s earlier and bought

Brie

caviar

Carr’s crackers—

what Dad would’ve bought himself.

We host a party.

As requested.

But now, “celebrating” with all these people,

my friends smoking in the stairwell,

his friends playing the piano, drinking,

the world wobbles beneath me.

All I can think to do

is lie on his side

of my parents’ bed.

That night:

I dream Dad is dancing,

like he can hear our music,

under a spinning disco ball,

and in his own way

he keeps the time.

THE MAN IN THE MOON

I bathe in moon.

I find the man

carved into its face.

I can’t stop looking.

Cracked smile.

Deep well eyes.

How does he feel hovering

in this starless New York City sky?

I get lost in caverns of gray space.

From the window

of my bathroom,

looking out onto the Hudson,

wonder how it could seem so peaceful

but hold so much junk.

I light candles.

Spin circles in water.

I no longer count time,

days tick by.

ON REPEAT

A week later,

light blinking

over and over

on my answering machine.

Gloria, checking in.

Chloe, asking me to take the Jitney

to the Hamptons,

just for the night,

some big party.

James asks if April and I

want to meet for coffee.

Dylan plays me Phish.

My college roommate

asks when can we talk.

I delete everything but the songs.

Those I play on repeat.

ALMOST

Mom, in the kitchen crying.

I put my hand on her shoulder,

ask if she wants to cook something.

She says she doesn’t know how.

I hand her an apron.

Show her how to dice the onions, Dad’s way.

April joins us midway.

She opens cans of beans, tomatoes.

All three of us make Dad’s chili.

We get it—almost—right.

We take our time eating.

April adds extra salt.

Mom reheats hers in the microwave.

As we finish up,

the summer sun lingering

late into the night,

I ask Mom if I

can go with her

to her studio

tomorrow.

HOLDING NEPTUNE

I.

Walking in

feels like entering a memory.

The last time I was here

was for one of Mom’s shows,

years ago,

before she left for Italy.

April comes too, we’re outsiders in the hot shop.

Glassblowers share the huge studio space.

A warehouse of furnaces burning molten glass.

Artists work in teams, taking turns

dipping their rods,

then blowing into them.

Mom’s the gaffer today,

she leads her team.

We follow her.

She gathers

the yellow-red glowing glass

onto her torch.

The heat so hot it stings my face,

I almost have to turn away.

Mom faces the fire.

Says hi to some guy named Larry,

another named Ron.

Everyone here seems to know her.

Respect her.

A fat man at the next station pulls

white-and-red liquid glass like taffy.

A younger guy snips it into pieces

like huge peppermint candies.

It’s like a circus,

Mom, the ringleader.

II.

Before we start

making our own art,

she tells us

about Wabi-Sabi,

the Japanese practice of

putting a thumbprint

on every piece you create

to show it is human-made,

imperfection makes it beautiful.

She says this is how she approaches her own art,

and this is how she approaches life too,

something made,

imperfect by design.

I shield Mom’s glass with the paddle

as she spins the rod,

an artist named Rose blows through it.

Mom says that every piece starts as a sphere.

No matter what you’re making.

She asks if I want a turn.

I gaze at the glowing torch.

Nod, take Rose’s place.

Mom guides me, says to blow into the rod.

Tells me my breath’s too shallow,

she says to use all my force.

I fight the impulse to give up.

The rod burns my lips as it spins

but I keep trying—blowing harder—

until the glowing blue sphere grows.

It veers sideways,

not at all like