Soon a taxi will be pulling up with both my grandmothers

and my daddy’s older sister,

who I call Auntie Nan.

Soon the house will be filled with people I’ve known forever.

It’s been over a year since his last football game.

I am sitting at the window

trying not to listen to Mama talking

to Uncle Sightman’s wife, Kim,

but I hear them anyway,

hear the way Mama’s voice drops down.

He has his good days. And then he’s someone else.

And then it’s him again.

Day to day, I don’t know which Zachariah I’m getting.

Hear Kim cluck her tongue, say

Um-hmmm and I hear you and Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.

Sightman’s one of the lucky ones, Kim says.

But every time I turn around, seems another player

is struggling like Zachariah.

I stare out over the yard,

trying not to think about Kim’s words.

When the ball was still made of pigskin

all those years ago, did players still

hurt like this? Did their brains get messed up

like this? Did they come back from over the hill

or stay on the other side?

Invite List

We didn’t invite a whole ton of people to the party.

We didn’t invite the people we don’t see anymore,

the ones who used to fill up our house,

their wineglasses clinking,

their laughter echoing through the rooms. The ones

who, one by one, stopped coming around to see Daddy.

We didn’t invite the people who called Mama saying

they would come by sometime and see what we needed,

then didn’t.

Didn’t invite the people who talked to the press

and said things like

He’s not the same Zachariah Johnson

and

I doubt he’ll ever play again

and

I hear he’s gotten violent

and—

We didn’t invite the people who stopped inviting us over

for dinner, for brunch, for their own parties.

We invited the people who keep coming around,

the few friends who ask How are y’all doing and wait

for our honest answers.

The Party

I sit on the cushions in the window seat

watching people arrive, hoping

my boys show up. But each time a car

pulls into the driveway

it isn’t them.

First a bunch of the guys Dad played football with,

their thick necks and shoulders,

their size fourteen shoes and too-tight dress shirts.

And their wives, who are all dressed up pretty,

their long hair tossing over their shoulders, their

high heels clicking across the floor.

All of them oohing and aahing

the decorations, the food, the lights, the bar.

All of them saying again

and again Everything looks so lovely and asking

How are you all holding up and

Zachariah 44—man! You looking good!

I keep watching the window,

waiting for my boys to show up.

But no bikes roll up. No taxis with one of them inside.