I come closer, sit on the arm of his chair.

The living room window looks out over the side yard

where Mama’s plants—a bright red rhododendron,

rose vines, bay leaf and lavender—

all look like they’re beginning to live again.

It’s spring.

Around the edges

of the cold, there’s the tiniest bit of warm air.

I move closer to Daddy, let my arm press against his.

Feel his muscles moving

as he massages Mama’s feet.

Riperton’s voice lifts up again, says a word and holds it

for what feels like forever.

I’m gonna write you some more songs, Daddy, I say.

I’m gonna write you a whole lotta new songs.

My daddy looks at me.

Nods slowly. Says

I’d like that a whole lot, little man.

And smiles.

Maplewood Blues Song

Look at all those trees, little man.

That’s why I moved y’all here.

Look at all those trees, little man.

That’s why I moved y’all here.

And when the night falls on Maplewood,

those trees just disappear.

I want to write a blues song, Daddy,

and sing it just for you.

I said I want to write a blues song, Daddy,

and sing it just for you.

The doctor said the music is

the only thing getting you through.

I look up at all those trees, Daddy,

and it takes me back to the time.

I said when I look up at all those trees, Daddy,

it sure takes me back to a time . . .

I don’t know how to finish this song.

Pigskin Dreams 2

Me, Ollie, Daniel and Darry are walking the trail.

A warm drizzle spraying around us and us slip-sliding on the leaves,

fooling around.

I got one of my dad’s footballs under my arm

and throw it long to Daniel, who snatches it

with a high jump,

then lands like someone floating back to the ground.

There’s sun

behind him and I have to swallow cuz the beautifulness of it

makes something in my throat jump.

Ever since I walked off the field all those weeks ago, I’ve

been done with playing football, and my boys understand.

But still, we like to throw it. To run and catch it,

to hug it to our chests

like one of our long-time-ago stuffed animals.

When we get deeper in the woods, we see Everett jogging toward us,

dressed in a tracksuit, weights

around his wrists and ankles.

Hey, he says, out of breath.

Hey, we all say back.

Y’all about to play a game?

Nah. I quit football, I tell him.

I’m training, Everett says, holding up his wrists.

Weights supposed

to be good for resistance and whatnot.

We’re just walking and throwing the ball, Daniel says. Just hanging.

You can join us if you want.

Nah, Everett says. Gotta stay true to the course if I plan to go pro.