hugs Mom’s legs, tells her she’s Day One Beautiful.

Pretty as the first time I saw you,

he says. At that crazy party Sightman threw. Bet you can’t

remember the song I asked you to dance to.

And Mom smiles, because she sees it too—

that old Daddy look

in his eyes. His headache gone. His memory home again.

Tell me, she says. Because maybe you’re right.

Maybe I don’t remember.

And Daddy laughs, says

I guess the night wasn’t so special for you.

“I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” I say. That old Whitney Houston song.

Now the fire’s crackling

and Daddy puts the grate over it.

Sparks jump out,

glow bright orange, then fade again.

The three of us watch it.

That was a good song, Daddy says into the fire.

We had some good times, didn’t we?

And Mom nods, kneels to put her arms around his neck,

stares into the fire and smiles.

Apple from the Tree

A week passes. And then another one.

A blizzard comes. And on a snow day I write a song.

I am sitting at the window singing when Daddy joins me,

still in pajamas but shaved and smiling.

So you’re writing ballads now? he says, grinning.

You’re one of those sensitive musicians, huh?

The song is about the snow, how softly it falls,

and it’s about other things too. Things I haven’t

figured out yet.

You’re becoming one of those Rufus Wainwright kinda brothers.

Mom looks over from reading the newspaper and laughs.

Says Well, Mr. Tree, meet your son, Apple.

Because Rufus Wainwright

is one of my dad’s favorite singers.

Just sing this part, I say, handing him the notebook with the lyrics in it.

Be my backup.

Your backup, huh?

He takes the notebook from me,

listens to me sing a minute, then joins in.

Everybody knows that they don’t know the story.

Everybody knows that snow knows its glory.

And when it’s melting, the rivers run down,

run down through the town.

And if I had my dream, it would stay as fine as it is today.

It would stay this way. Please stay this way.

My dad stops singing and looks at me.

Then, still holding my notebook, he says You got talent, ZJ,

his voice breaking. Then he hugs me so hard

it almost hurts but doesn’t

because it’s all cushioned up by his words

and by the proud look I see flash across his face,

a look I remember from a long, long time ago.

Birthday

Today is Daddy’s thirty-fifth birthday.

There’re balloons all over the dining room.

Blue and gold streamers hanging down from the lights.

A papier-mâché mountain in the living room.

I made it from old newspapers,

painted it green and brown

and drew OVER THE HILL in bright gold letters around it.