Now mostly I play my guitar alone.

Sing those songs.

And remember how good it felt to make music

together.

Skate Park

Me, Ollie, Daniel and Darry

meet up at the skate park for Daniel’s twelfth birthday.

It’s crowded with kids doing ollies and grinds and kick flips on the ramps but we don’t care.

Daniel can outskate every single one

of them

because wheels are wheels. Bike, skateboard, blades, doesn’t matter.

I don’t believe in gravity, he says, flipping his board up into his hands.

We have boards too. Pads and helmets and

even mouth guards. Darry’s got braces now, and his mother

said if he even breaks a bracket,

she’s going to take his board away.

I’m not so good on the board—just go slow and try

to make some cool turns on the back wheels,

but I fall.

The four of us skate off to the side, away from the

other kids, but then Daniel jumps over into the circle

of everything, does some magic and skates back

to us. And even though it’s him

with the skills, feels like it’s all of us.

Feels like we’re all just one amazing kid

the four of us, each a quarter

of a whole.

New Normal

Monday morning, I come down all dressed in

jeans, a football jersey and a T-shirt underneath

to find Mama kneeling in front of Daddy,

pulling socks onto his feet

and him staring out the window.

Already hasn’t been a great morning, Mama says.

Zachariah, say good morning to your son,

she tells my dad.

But he keeps looking straight ahead, his brow creased

like he’s deep in concentration.

Hey, Dad, I say anyway, come over to him, kiss

the top of his head. He jumps a little but keeps staring.

And now Mama is at the stove, spooning oatmeal

into a bowl for me, sprinkling nuts on top and slicing

banana over it.

I can do that, I tell her.

But you don’t have to, Mama says back.

Not yet. Be a boy for a little while longer.

I look over at Dad again, his head hanging now

and moving slowly from side to side.

This isn’t some kind of new normal, my mom says.

We’re gonna get this figured out, ZJ.

She pushes the bowl of oatmeal toward me.

What time is it? my dad says. I got to get to my game.

You have time, my mom says back to him. You have plenty of time.

Memory like a Song

Sometimes I’m just sitting in my room

and a song will come on the radio that stops

something inside of me, makes me

sit up straight on my bed

and listen. Sometimes, it’s the piano chords,

a sweet riff that has all eighty-eight keys talking.

Sometimes it’s the drums—high hat telling

a story—I don’t know