Daddy

Chloe sits in the kitchen. Midterms are in four days, and the sadistic bastard who decided that chemistry and algebra 2 were going to be on the same day should be shot. The streetlights are out again, so it's pitch black. Thanks, Daylight Savings. She longs to sleep.

Oh my God's. Two of them. It's the second one staggers her heart, the tiny wail that Mom uses only when she cries. And Chloe knows, even before she walks into the room and sees the body. She's prepared ever since her grandfather's funeral some ridiculous amount of time ago. One day, Mommy and Daddy were going to die. She was probably going to have to see them dead. And Daddy was a smoker and didn't like to wear his seatbelt, so he was probably going to go first.

Dad's hands are cold. God. 911. Even though they were too late--his legs are stiff. She sits in the driveway waiting for the ambulance (she screams into her hands a little) before she thinks to go pull her mother off him. Carries her out.

The ambulance comes.

Shit. How is she going to tell her sister?

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Chloe's dressed neck-to-toe in black, clothes her cousin had bought her hurriedly the morning of the funeral because Chloe embarrassingly doesn't have anything in black that fits her. Nothing to wear to her father's funeral. Pathetic.

And here is the funeral procession--damn the South, thinking it's autumn when it's actually winter (leaves everywhere), and it's time to move. Figures in black. Leaves of red. Black against red. Life against death.

They made her sing at the funeral, then waited to see if she would cry. Everyone's watching for her to cry. So she won't.

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Chloe cries later, in January, when the blue jay joins the cardinal in the sprinkler in her backyard. No one sees. There are a lot of things she doesn't know, and she doesn't know if this is their secret or her secret, but it's a secret. She keeps it.

Grandpa

She was still half-dreaming amongst her crayon-themed decor when her mother came into her room. Grandpa didn't make it. And Chloe dreamt of the pool where Miss Laura taught her to swim during the summer. Grandpa had tried a no-breather and ended up standing up halfway through. He got bored, as she often did, and they went to watch birds, as he often did. He pointed out the cardinal and the blue jay. Much better than the brown morning doves they usually saw.

Of course she knew what dying meant. Chloe was five--not a baby like her sister. Grandpa was going to heaven. Grandpa was going to God. Chloe's mother dressed her in the red-and-white poofy dress with the flowers. Everyone was crying. Chloe twirled in her Mary Janes.

"Not today," her mother said.

Chloe didn't recognize Grandpa in the coffin. They shaved his beard. Chloe took note of the way Grandpa's hands were arranged and vowed never to sleep that way. She didn't want to die. She liked her hair.

Anthem for a Stroll (Mar's Song)

First, gather your winds about you--close enough to kiss your wrists (but leave room for them to tousle your hair). In summer, you'll want to float like your sister clouds; in winter, you'll want to slice like sleet. Claim your body, these legs that cover so much ground, these arms that gather so much love, and these hips that swing, high-tide, low-tide. Was the woman created from the oceans, or the oceans from the woman? Maybe they learned their paradox together, moving out, in, out, in, all the while, drawing deeper the men and the seashells. Flow, and flow.

Flow like flame, that core that never stops whispering this compels, this must. Feel it light your eyes and the tips of your fingers. The air crackles around you; you do not walk--you stride, and the earth comes to a standpoint in your midst.

"Oh, it's so cute!"

Kei's final art project made The Board--a Marilyn Monroe-type outline of a woman's face. We looked closer and saw Marilyn's skin and hair, all words: hairsprayhairsprayhairspraylipsticklipstickeyeshadowblushblush. To us, Kei was not an artist. She was the video game girl. She knew the Mario theme song and could play it by memory on piano.

If we all text her at the same time, she'll be so happy we admire her work.

I have my phone in my hands when I see the words written inside the eyes--blue, the irises.

Maybe Won't

They See