he could have been my daddy’s son.

Or my dad as a kid, dreaming football dreams.

We don’t know the reason, I say after a minute passes.

His head’s just not right anymore.

I hope it gets better, Everett says.

And from the way he’s looking at me,

I know he means it.

Thanks.

I walk out of the bathroom.

Put my damp hands in my pockets.

I hear the bell ringing and walk slow to science

while kids run and bump against me to get

where they’re going.

His head’s just not right anymore.

I’m gonna go pro one day.

We don’t know the reason.

I hope it gets better.

The words move around in my head.

Sounding heavy

and hard

and forever.

Waiting

We’re always waiting.

Waiting for another doctor.

Waiting for more tests. Waiting for test results.

Waiting for new treatments.

We’re waiting for an appointment for a thing called an MRI,

where a machine looks at my dad’s brain to see

if there’s a tumor there.

We’re waiting to see if getting a thing called

acupuncture works. Waiting to try a thing called

a hyperbaric oxygen chamber. Waiting to see if

meditation can help his hands stop shaking.

These things take time, the doctors say again and again.

These things take time—like an awful chorus

to a really bad song.

Then, early Sunday morning, in the first week of spring,

my daddy comes downstairs

and he’s dressed and he’s whistling a tune he hasn’t whistled in a long time.

I’m sitting in the window seat, softly strumming my guitar.

I woke up with a song in my head this morning,

little man.

He sits across from me, hands me the pad that’s filled with so many of our songs

and says

You ready to get to writing?

I take the pad and pen from him.

Open it to the back,

where there are still some blank pages.

Look up at him and smile because,

at least for today,

maybe the waiting is over.

Jazz

Music turned way down low

always makes my daddy smile.

I wish I could sing like that, he says.

We’re listening to a lady named Minnie Riperton sing

a song called “Memory Lane,” her voice

getting high and holding notes

for so long, it feels like my chest is gonna break open.

Somebody needs to sing me a song like that all the time,

my daddy says.

Mama is sitting across from him.

She has her feet up on a stool and he’s rubbing them,

his big hands

moving gently from her toes to her heel.

She has her eyes closed

and is smiling.

Everything feels real clear now, my daddy says. Feels like

some kind of blanket

just lifted off my head.

Then he turns, sees me and says

Come over here with us, little man.