that slips down your throat

even if your throat

has a huge terrified lump in it.

My mother gives another

maybe-real, maybe-fake smile.

“Your father,”

she says,

“is going on a trip.”

Dad’s Trip

An important architect asked Dad

to make the furniture

for an important house he’s building

for an important client,

who lives somewhere in North Carolina,

so he’s paying for Dad to fly there

to meet the client,

and see the halfway-finished house,

and how it fits into the setting,

and study exactly how the Smoky Mountains look

at sunrise and probably at sunset, too,

for inspiration.

(Plus, Dad can visit my great-aunt,

who lives in a nearby town,

all alone in a falling-down house,

and who could use a visit from

somebody handy with tools to check up on things.)

It does sound like the coolest trip ever,

and my dad has the coolest job ever,

and I’m the proudest daughter ever.

But

“How long you will be gone?” I ask him,

and I can’t keep the wobble out of my voice.

“Two weeks,” he says.

Two weeks without Dad making Belgian waffles

for my mom and me on Sunday mornings

and bringing them to us in my parents’ bed.

Two weeks without Dad running the vacuum

in between times when the every-other-week cleaner comes

because Mom gets extra stressed if the house is extra dirty.

Two weeks without Dad putting his arms around Mom

and telling her that George Bixler is bound

to retire one of these days

and she shouldn’t let him take up space in her head.

Two weeks without Dad winking at me

if Mom gets on my case about practicing piano.

Two weeks without Dad smiling at me every morning

and saying, “Good morning, Sunshine.”

Two weeks without Dad tucking me into bed every night

even though I’m almost twelve.

Two weeks!

Questions

“When are you leaving?” I ask him.

“Actually, soon,” he says.

“How soon?”

“Actually, tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow?!”

“I know,” he says.

“They’ve been pressuring me to go,

and I kept dithering and dithering.

I just didn’t know how you and your mother…

After all, she works so hard,

she’s so crazy busy,

and has so much going on,

and I like to be here to help

with whatever I can.

And two weeks—

well, two weeks—

it’s just a long time.”

“Now, James”

My mother lays her hand on his arm

and shakes her head

as if to put a stop to his foolishness.

“You know how much I want you

to have this opportunity!

Betsy wants you to have it, too.

Heaven knows it’s your turn.

Every high-end cabinetmaker in America

would leap at this chance.

And poor Aunt Etta needs you right now

more than we do. You’ve been worried

about her for ages!

James, we will be fine!

Betsy, tell him:

You and I will be totally fine!”