Skyscraping - Cordelia Jensen Page 0,27

the round bubbles

Mom blew before.

Lopsided.

Asymmetrical.

I tell her I want to do it again.

I want to try to make it perfect, round.

She says

art

is not about

perfection.

Remember Wabi-Sabi.

III.

Later, we carry the bubble down the winding halls

to her workstation.

I gasp—

a whole solar system is hanging.

She tells me we are holding Neptune.

Says it’s the last planet to add.

Says it’s for me, for my dorm room.

We hang my imperfect Neptune

where it belongs,

the solar system rattles,

and settles into something beautiful.

AS HIMSELF

I wander the apartment

in Dad’s Texas T-shirt.

Flick on the TV.

Off.

Microwave water for ramen.

On/off.

Keep expecting to see Dad.

It’s been almost a month now

but still

I hear him say:

Mira, ramen is not real food. It’s dorm food.

Speaking of which, we need to buy you

new sheets for college. Shower shoes.

Some days I hear him pour oil into the pan.

It sizzles.

Smell onions, carrots, peppers.

I hear him cough,

hear his footsteps,

hear him cry at Hallmark commercials.

Other days, I hear him make dinner conversation.

He asks what I’ll be for Halloween this year.

I tell him I don’t know yet.

He laughs.

Says:

This year, for Halloween, Miranda?

I’m going as myself.

I tell him April and I saw Forrest Gump

four times in one week.

That he would have loved it,

how Forrest runs and runs

across America.

How Jenny dies at home

with her family.

He says:

Sounds like our kind of movie.

I tell him I’ve been teaching Mom to cook,

about my college roommate assignment.

I tell him that April has taken up running in the park.

That Mom took us to the studio, made me a

mobile, told us about Wabi-Sabi:

And that maybe,

just like art,

we are something made, not perfect.

I tell him that I miss him.

That I will learn to play chess, take a road trip someday.

Then, one day, the house is quiet.

I hear the front door open and

I hear him say goodbye.

CUT FROM SKY

The doorbell rings,

James is there.

For the first time I notice

his eyes—

the same bright blue

as Dad’s—circles cut from sky.

He tells me Mom asked him to help her

sort some of Dad’s teaching files.

I ask him—

because Mom hardly knows how—

if, after we’re done, he could take me

out in the family car.

Give me a lesson.

He arches his eyebrows,

a new piercing hangs from one.

He says to wait

just a minute—

he’ll get the keys—

we’ll do that first.

Driving sounds a lot more fun than filing.

BLIND SPOTS

James pulls the car around the corner.

My stomach lurches.

He switches to the passenger side—

Me, the driver.

James shares the secret to driving well:

not just having awareness of other people

but believing you, yourself,

are in control.

I nod.

He turns on the radio.

“Alex Chilton” by the Replacements starts playing.

I drive down West End,

windows down, we both hum along.

Twenty minutes later,

up and around the neighborhood,

he tells me I’m ready for the highway.

I say but there are so many people—

he says they want to live too.

I can’t help but laugh.

Turn left on 79th.

Back to the Henry Hudson, 9A.

When I merge onto the highway,

a red car honks at me loudly,

then swerves into another lane.

James tells me it’s okay,

that was my blind spot.

I make it four more exits,

staying in the right lane,

without another person honking at me.

A smile breaks from my lips.

For the first time in weeks, I feel something—possibility.

I tell him Dad always said you were a good teacher.

He says he heard I was a good student.

I ask if we can do it again,

if he thinks I could pass my test

before I leave for school.

He says

he knows I can

if we practice

every day.

We park and take the elevator up,

me with a smile.

James in my peripheral vision,

still humming “Alex Chilton,”

and I realize that blind spots

aren’t just

about driving.

STARSHELLS

I.

That night, Chloe and Dylan kidnap me,

take me to the ocean.

They have a surprise, they say.

In Chloe’s Volvo,

I stretch my dad’s T-shirt

over my knees.

Chloe tells me I need to change clothes,

there’s no excuse for bad hygiene.

I can’t see the ocean

but, with the window down,

I can smell, almost taste,

the salt.

II.

They bought me a telescope.

We watch stars firework across the night.

Up close, like Mr. Lamb’s slides.

I stargaze,

Dylan hugs me from behind.

He kisses me once,

Chloe turns cartwheels

in the sand.

Pieces of shell glint

all around us,

like thousands of stars

rained to Earth.

I gather one for each of them.

A deep blue mussel for Chloe.

For Dylan, a heart-shaped cockle.

For James, two shiny jingles.

Mom, a soft white slipper shell.

Rainbow-striped scallop for April.

Angel’s wings

for Dad.

And for me,

a

Venus clam.

WITH CAUTION

Two more weeks of daily lessons,

on busy streets, the highway,

one week left before school starts,

James says it’s time.

His eyes gloss over.

I wonder

if missing someone feels the same

inside every person.

Ride the subway uptown,

enter a tan box of a building.

For the first time,

I say a prayer—

for Dad to keep me

safe.

During the test,

I brake with caution,

keep my hands at 10 and 2.

Park as best I can,

tricky, imperfect.

Relax a