Reaching for Sun (2 page)

and she’ll unearth almost anything

from its secret compartments.

Her long hair

stays fastened in a bun

with chopsticks

until bedtime,

when it waterfalls

down near to her waist.

She grew up

in this very house,

the only daughter after four sons

and the single one

to survive

and inherit the farm—

though now

there’s only five acres

left of it

to call her own.

double major

Ten minutes after Edna leaves

Mom flies through the front door

from her job waiting tables

at the Lunchbox Café

next to the Ford plant.

She pecks Gran on the cheek,

me on the head,

but never stops moving

or talking the whole time.

Grabs her lunch bag

(and two pieces of fudge),

changes out of her yellow polyester uniform,

and heads straight out the back door

in a run—

and that’s all I’ll see her today.

She’s got finals this week,

and then one semester left

at the community college

with a double major

in business administration

and landscape design.

So she’s just a blip

on the screen

of my life

these days.

drop out

I don’t know much

about my father except

he was a freshman in college

just like Mom

when I was conceived—

though he didn’t drop out on
his
dreams.

I wonder

if he ditched me and Mom

when he found out about my disability,

or if it gave him the excuse he needed—

typed letter left behind in the mailbox,

no stamp.

I wonder

if I got my straight

blond hair, blue eyes,

and cowardice from him,

and whether he’s real smart,

rich, and now got himself

a picture-perfect family.

I wonder whether

he likes pepper on his

corn on the cob like me,

or poetry

before slipping off to sleep.

When I asked Mom

she always answered:

“I don’t know,”

between her teeth

until I stopped asking.

Gran said she knew

next to nothing about him

and thought of him even less.

If we met one day

accidentally,

say, in an airport,

I wonder

if he’d be carrying

my baby picture

behind his license.

I wonder

if I could forgive him—

let myself be folded

into his warm embrace,

or if

I’d spit on that picture

and scratch out my

face so he couldn’t pretend

to care about me anymore.

fingertip pieces of dreams

Gran stretches to store

her rose-covered shoe box

back up in the hall closet.

You’d think she taught

first grade,

not just Sunday school,

the way she loves

cutting and pasting her way

through winter.

She snips out pictures of

fences, flowers, plants, and pots

from seed catalogs and

gardening magazines—

a puzzle of her dream spring garden

with no perfect fit.

Just as she tips the box into place,

it falls.

Out flutter

petals of color

and Granny lands

on her wide bottom.

I rush to her side,

help her find her balance.

It takes half an hour

to carefully pick up these

fingertip pieces of dreams

and click the heavy closet door

on them again.

aunt laura

My mom’s best friend,

Aunt Laura

(though she’s not really my aunt),

visits each December

with her son, Nathan,

who’s also in seventh grade.

Mom and Aunt Laura

shop for days on end

while Nathan and I

watch movies

or play checkers—

silently.

Mom and Aunt Laura

stay up almost until dawn

never running out of words.

Nathan and I

ice cookies

while Granny sings off-key

to her vinyl

holiday albums.

After spending days

leading to Christmas

together each year,

you’d think

Nathan and I

would be friends—

but we’re

not.

gifts

It’s a tradition

that we only get three gifts

each year—

“Was enough for Jesus,” Gran says—

and two of them must be homemade.

Gran taught me to crochet

with my good hand,

and we figured out a way

to make the yarn

loop around the frozen

fingers on my left.

It’s taken three months

to make them each

a wooly scarf

and mittens

in their favorite colors—

purple for mom

and fuchsia for Gran.

Next year it might take me

six months,

but I’m going to learn how to knit!

holiday buffet

On Christmas Eve

we buy up the gala apples

with thumbprint bruises,

oranges, scaly and puckered,

even bananas spotted like

Granny’s hands.

Cutting the fruit into wedges,

and then piercing them with large paper clips.

Stringing popcorn,

raisins, and cereal

until the tips of our fingers ache.

Huge pinecones

get smeared with peanut butter

sent from Aunt Laura’s

down in North Carolina,

then sprinkled with sunflower seeds

and bird feed until they’re coated.

We dress our white pine tree

just outside

the family room window

with these offerings.

Then kill the lights

and watch

the holiday feast.

midnight service

At midnight

we bundle into the

darkened church.

Kids from school

who usually pretend I’m invisible

wish me Merry Christmas

and say hello

in front of their parents.

But the hymns

I can’t even sing

warm and light me

like the small white candle

flickering

in my good hand.

holiday

On Christmas

we stay in pajamas—

all day—

nibble the ham

Gran baked

between homemade biscuits

Mom can create from scratch

in fourteen minutes flat.

We watch

old movies

(though all our hands fiddle on projects

the whole time)

or work on a new five-thousand-piece puzzle

that won’t get swept off the dining room table

until we finish it

just before Thanksgiving.

These few days:

the best ones

of the year.

presents

Mom’s so surprised

over her scarf and gloves—

didn’t even know

I could crochet

since she hasn’t been home

most of the fall.

Gran’s scarf is a little uneven,

but she doesn’t seem

to mind.

Mom painted each pot

for Gran’s ever-increasing collection of violets—

and gave her a gift certificate for seeds

from an heirloom vegetable catalog.

Gran created a quilted book bag for Mom

and a robe soft as a puppy.

I love

the blue jeans jacket Mom bought

and beaded.

Gran embroidered

a journal with my initials

and unveiled a new quilt for my bed

in the colors of summer—

watermelon, tomato, blue skies,

and lemonade.

the back acre

Christmas afternoon we pull boots

over our pajamas, bundle up,

and hike the snowless landscape

to the back acre,

where most of the family is buried

inside the wrought-iron fence

under an ancient hemlock tree.

Four generations of Wyatts

owned this land

before Gran—

near to a thousand acres.

When Papaw died,

Gran ran it for several years

best she knew how

renting out acres to farmers,

canning any vegetable she could.

But when Mom wanted college

more than a farm,

and my medical bills

stacked up on the dining room table,

Gran resigned herself to sell it to her friend.

At first the farmer

who bought it didn’t change a thing,

but when Mr. Killick got sick too,

his kids put him in Lazy Acres and sold

all of it to the developer that built

the mansions up behind us.

Gran places silk poinsettias on top

of each Wyatt stone.

“My momma would understand what I had to do,”

Gran says,

“but I’ll have to answer

to Daddy one day.”

Then she turns her face

into the wind

and walks away.

clothes

There’s more new clothes

on the first day back

from Christmas break

than the first day of school;

no one wanting to look

eager in September.

I may stick out

in every other way

in the hallways of middle school,

but my outfits

can compete

even with the rich kids

from the neighborhood behind us.

Mom might pester me

about homework

and my exercises and therapies,

but on fashion

we always agree.

the table

I hate

the mosaic-topped kitchen table

Mom created,

not because it wobbles,

or the food that’s served on it

(the best part, by far),

but because it’s her favorite

place to pounce.

Mom plops across from me

at breakfast,

and even though it’s Saturday

and school just got started again,

she forces me to review

a giant stack of flash cards

for the end-of-year tests.

Then a list

of exercises she’s gotten

from the speech therapist,

occupational therapist,

and physical therapist.

I think tomorrow

I’ll skip breakfast.

january

The only good thing

about January?

Halfway to June.

spring

Even the pine trees
Appear new
In spring.

—Izumi Shikibu

kingdom of imaginary worlds

An oily stink

blows in again from the bulldozers—

those metal monster dinosaurs

that scar the landscape

behind our old farm.

The tornadoes of dust they kick up

as they move closer each season

leave the porch cushions

and our teeth

dusted with a grimy film.

The echoes

of early-morning hammering

wake me

even on Saturday mornings.

And though I hate

what they’ve done

to my kingdom of imaginary worlds—

fairy towns and factories

closed,

the summer camp for ogres

shut down,

a homeless shelter for gnomes

flattened—

with chin on knees

I can’t help but study the men,

busy as bugs,

not satisfied until they

block another tree

from me.

poppies

When poppies first

push themselves

out of the ground

they look like a weed—

hairy, grayish, saw-toothed foliage—

easily a member

of the ugly family.

When I push

sounds from my mouth

it’s not elegant either.

I wrestle to wrap

my lips

around syllables,

struggle with my tongue

to press the right points.

When poppies bloom

the same red

as a Chinese wedding dress—

satiny cups with ruffled edges,

purplish black eyes—

they’re a prize for patience,

and if I take all that trouble

to say something,

I promise

to try

to make it worth

the wait too.

despite

Mom and I lug

house plants

back outside

from Granny’s rusting metal plant stand

that’s blocking our one picture window

so you can never tell

who’s pulling in the drive

through the tangle of green.

Just like the plants,

I dream of being

back outside for long summer days,

not stuck

in occupational therapy

twice a week,

speech therapy three times a week,

or tortured at the kitchen table

with flash cards

the little time Mom spends at home.