Want to run up the stairs after him

want to grab him, say

Dad, come back down. Hug me.

Ask me about my day,

like you used to.

Then Mom is in the kitchen,

getting her afternoon coffee, the pot

bubbling while we sit silently eating tiny pieces

of candy to make the sweetness last.

She only eats candy bars

when she’s worrying. Chocolate, she says,

helps me think.

Tell me something, I finally say.

Tell me what’s happening with Dad.

Outside, a whole flock of sparrows

cry out as they fly away, the sounds they make

fading before my mom says

More doctors. More “It could be this, it could be that.”

I ask her Aren’t doctors supposed

to be able to figure it out? And if they can’t, then

how are they going to fix him?

He’s not broken, ZJ, my mom says back.

He’s just not himself right now.

When’s he gonna play ball again?

They don’t know.

When will his head stop hurting?

They don’t know.

When’s he gonna be himself again?

They don’t know.

I want to scream What do they know?!

But my mom is sipping her coffee.

One sugar, a little milk.

The birds have all flown off somewhere.

The kitchen is quiet as a prayer.

When I look at my mom again, her eyes are closed

and her lips are moving, silently.

And then, almost too soft to hear but I hear it anyway,

she says

In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.

Driving

The doctor said my dad

can’t drive anymore.

Now, when the weather’s real bad,

Mama’s gonna have to drive me to school.

The doctor said to Daddy

Look on the bright side. You have this beautiful chauffeur.

Then he winked at Mama.

Look on the bright side, my daddy said back to the doctor.

You’re a total chauvinist.

Mama said she worked hard to hold herself together until they left that doctor’s office.

But when they got back in the car, she burst out laughing.

Zachariah Johnson! You made that poor man

turn bright red!

Bet he’ll think twice, my daddy said, about what dumb thing

he’s thinking about saying next time.

So even though the news about driving

was terrible, the two of them

just sat there, laughing.

Call Me Little Man

The first time you forgot my name

feels like yesterday. Feels like an hour ago.

Feels like I blink and you forgetting

is right there in front of me.

Me and you were sitting at the dining room table

doing a puzzle. Daddy, I said, your hand keeps shaking.

And you looked up at me, slowly. It was like your eyes

lifted up first

and then the rest of your head followed.

I don’t really know how

to explain what I saw. The way everything

seemed to slow-mo down

to nothing except your eyes