Without tears.

Lighting up

her cigarette

right there in the

hospital.

After a while,

when I think I can make it,

I lead Momma

to the elevator,

holding her up.

Outside the sun

is so bright

it feels like noon

but I know

it can’t be,

that it’s way

later in the day

than that.

Momma stumbles off

the sidewalk,

almost falling to one knee.

And I throw back

my head

and laugh like nothing

else.

The thing is,

though,

I don’t think

it is a bit

funny.

23.

All these years,

Momma says, driving us

up the coast

toward home,

following the old

beach highway.

All these years,

she says,

I kept us

from government help.

Until now.

The hospital and Lizzie are behind us.

Ormond and welfare wait for us

up the road some.

It’s growing dark,

the sky turning

pink and gold

with just that much blue.

Momma is quiet

smoking

smoking

her eyes dripping

like she has leaks.

Then she says,

Your daddy and me

used to drive

this old road on his bike.

You did?

I say.

I never knew.

There’s lots you don’t know,

Momma says.

And she is right about

that.

She is right

about

that.

24.

Momma:

1. Applies for welfare.

2. Hollers at my absent daddy.

3. Settles down for a few drinks.

I:

1. Sneak out of the house.

2. Grab my bike from the falling-down garage.

3. Pedal on over to Mari’s.

I pedal as

fast as

I can.

Quiet past Miss Freeman’s place

past the trailer park,

gripping

the handlebars,

past the

library.

Mouth open wide,

a scream so loud

my eyes squinch shut.

A scream for Lizzie

who I was supposed to

take care of.

25.

In a whisper of words

I can say

that Mari

is my best friend

second only to

my sister.

Has been

since third grade.

Will be

until

the two of us

die.

26.

Bicycling along,

screaming,

helps.

Makes some of the

pain

go away.

The rest slips

into my feet

as I

steer across

the grass

of Mari’s front yard.

I drop the bike

near the petunias

and go to

knock

but Mari

slings the door wide

and shouts,

What took you so

damn long to

get here?

Then she laughs

big and I can

see her molars.

She doesn’t have

even one cavity.

She wears an old

AFI T-shirt

and her hair

is purple today.

I matched it

to the petunias,

Mari says,

when I raise my eyebrows

at her.

Almost,

I say.

Almost that color

exactly.

Come on in here,

Mari says.

I breathe deep

the smell of air-conditioning

and flowers,

and step into the

house.

27.

Mari’s momma and daddy

own the local

greenhouse called

Plants Are People Too.

Long buildings,

full of seedlings in early spring,

spindly weedy-looking

almost-plants a few weeks

later,

then tables full of color,

is their job.

Sometimes

I help

pressing seeds into

the moist dirt

or pulling sprouted

weeds that grow faster