and that makes the songs

lonely.

Momma’s voice,

so throaty and low

makes me

remember being with

my sister.

Winter.

So cold

that the fireplace heat

did nothing in this room.

I could see our breath

when Liz and me whispered

together.

We were close,

like the petals of an

unopened rose.

Out of the blue

Liz said,

I don’t like that

Floyd Brackney

at all.

Floyd Brackney

is one of Momma’s

regulars.

Sometimes he comes here to pick

Momma up.

Lizzie’s breath was warm

in my hair.

She had wrapped her arms

tight around my middle

and her chin dug into my shoulder blade.

Me either,

I said.

Especially when he gets

that white spitty stuff

at the edges of his mouth.

He’s like that

everywhere,

Liz said.

Yucky all over.

And his belly jiggles.

Right after she said jiggles,

I laughed and she said,

It’s not funny, Hope.

But Lizzie laughed too.

Then she climbed from our

warm cocoon of a bed

and switched on the CD player.

Jesus Christ Superstar

came on, all those electric

guitars and electric organs.

Let’s sing parts,

Liz said.

So we did.

I sang Judas and Liz sang Jesus

and our breath

puffed out like clouds

in the air

that cold night.

65.

Hope,

Momma says, the next

Saturday morning,

we got to go see Lizzie

today.

I hafta talk to a psychiatrist.

Momma looks at me side-eyed.

Damn,

she says,

this is costing me a helluva lotta money.

Good thing we got us a little savings.

I look

through my Ian St. Clair pictures.

Mari and me,

we’re thinking of making

scrapbooks.

I’ve got enough stuff

to fill three volumes,

I bet.

Did you hear me?

Momma says.

We got to go see Lizzie.

All right,

I say.

It’ll take the day,

Momma says.

She scratches

at her belly

near her piercing.

Since Momma plays the

guitar she never lets

her nails get too long.

I see she’s

ready for the hospital.

Her shirt and skirt,

short and shiny,

makes her look uncomfortable.

Momma is blue jeans and halters

girl.

That’s what she says.

And nice clothes when she’s going out

at night.

I miss Liz,

I say.

And I do.

Something like hunger gnaws

at me when I

think of her

alone

at the hospital.

I have some things to give her,

I tell Momma

but she’s busy

checking her hair in

the mirror.

Maybe my favorite Ian

picture,

I think.

Maybe a stuffed

animal so she

isn’t all by

herself.

Pack us lunch,

Momma says.

We can’t eat out every

time we travel to the hospital.

Get a couple of tangerines

out of the fridge.

And I want two sandwiches.

Yes, ma’am,

I say.

I fry

up bacon for

BLTs.

I get to see Lizzie.

66.

The first crush

I ever had on someone,

was a boy two years older

than me.

I was in fourth grade

and Adam Stevens

was in the fifth,

in class with Lizzie.

He sat right next to her.