family

Don’t Pick Up

Poetry 
When you call someone 
And they don't pick up,
Aren't there just two reactions?

Relief or frustration. 

Some people I am just calling
Because I think that is what I'm supposed to do.
And if they don't pick up, it's like a win
Because they can at least see that I tried - 
I tried to connect with you, but you didn't pick up. 

So it's not my fault.

And I don't have to have a phone conversation, 
Which can be exhausting and alienating. 

So I'm relieved. 

But some people I call
Because I've been thinking about them for days. 
I've been thinking about what they would say 
In this moment.

I've been thinking about what they wouldn't say, too. 

I'm calling you because I've been trying to be your voice
But I am not your voice. 
I've been trying to not need you. 

So I call you.
And on the third or fourth ring, I imagine you
Glancing down at your phone
And hitting the button that makes your phone stop ringing
Without making it seem like you ignored my call. 

Hi you've reached Danny, I can't take your call right now—

I thought we were going to talk. I think about the conversation we would have had.
I think about all the people I haven't picked up for.

The Antidote

Poetry 
Why am I so hard on you?
Because I am hard on me.
And me doesn’t like to hear it from me,
Doesn’t like to believe it could be me.
So me puts it on you. 

I put it on you
Like a dark cloak
Made of mud and gum 
And melting molasses.

“Why is she like that? 
Why can’t she just stand up for herself?
Why is she so insecure?
She’s just doing it for attention.
She’s pathetic.
I hate that she’s like that.”

I hate that I am like that.

But I am trying to be 
More impeccable with my word.
Inflict no harm with my thoughts and speech.
Communicate with the intention of love.

Murder the fear 
That has wallpapered my mind 
For too long. 

Because when I think those thoughts about you
I am poisoning us both. 
Love, forgiveness, and empathy 
Are the antidote.

16 Screws

Prose

It’s weird. I’ve talked to you more in the past week than I have the past six months. Getting an uninitiated text from you was a strange occasion.

I guess that’s what happens when you have nothing but 18 hours of TV, time, and self-administered pain meds.

She called me on Tuesday. The way she began the conversation had me concerned. Dancing around the subject for a little too long.

“He finally went to the doctor. His sister made him promise, so he finally did it…they took an MRI and found that his vertebrae had fused together…he couldn’t lift his head at all, pain was too much…Dr. Ostrup said he could perform the surgery this Friday…they haven’t decided if they’re going in through the front or the back…there are the usual complications and risks, and then there are others. Like C5 Palsy, which makes it so you can’t lift your arms…yes, he’s going to do it…okay, love you too.”

Friday arrived unceremoniously – or as unceremonious as a Friday can be. People are always in good spirits. Always like to talk about how it’s Friday. What else can you say?

She sent us updates throughout the surgery and the recovery. She was our eyes and our worries. She was our telescope into your fragile universe, our cardboard tube into your imaginary world, hanging on a thread as thick as a spinal cord.

I don’t love that you had to get that surgery. But I did love how much you talked to me. I loved the neediness of your conversations. The sentences that lasted just a beat extra because you didn’t want to hang up. The jokes—self-conscious at first—lumped in a silly mass on top of the connection that had always been traced there but never filled in.

The surgeon put 16 screws in his neck to give the vertebrae room to breathe and move. To take the pressure off. 16 screws!

When he came home, I was there. I hugged him gently and rushed to grab a cold Coke and straw from the kitchen.

You shuffled your way across the family room, briefly brushing by the hellos and how are yous. You were on a mission to the sun. I could tell that you had been thinking about this moment for a while. As soon as you sat down, time slowed for you. And the buttery warmth of the Autumn sunshine fell upon your face.

Tori gates in Kyoto

My grandpa told me…

Poetry 
Sweet. Woody. Smokey. Lint.
That is how he always smelled. 
Each visit ended with a hug
That got looser and bonier
Until it got tight and shaky,
Clinging to small moments
As time pulled at the hems of his khakis.

My grandpa told me 
He had dreams about touring the universe
In a plastic lawn chair.
He’d grip the sun-beaten armrests
As the chair maneuvered through planets
And soared through the star-spotted abyss.

My grandpa told me
Two men came to his family’s small home
And told them they had 30 minutes to pack 
Everything they wanted to bring to the camps
Because they were Japanese
And they were dangerous.

My grandpa told me
You should always eat buckwheat noodles
Because they’re good for your heart.

My grandpa told me 
After he stated his name
The farm owner said, “That’s too hard. I’m just gonna call you Dickey.”

My grandpa told me
To “go on” and join the dancing women 
At the Obon Festival 
Who moved in undulating circles 
In white silk kimonos 
Embroidered with red flowers.

My grandpa told me
He found his younger sister
Lying half-drowned, face-down in a drainage ditch
On the edge of the farm in Arkansas.

My grandpa told me 
To wait. 
As I stood on a small beach on Lake Hodges 
With a plastic, neon purple fishing rod
And learned to love fishing
For the waiting. 

My grandpa told me, 
“You don’t let anyone push you around, okay? 
Be tough.
Okay?”
And clutched me to his disappearing frame.

I said “Okay.”
Not knowing that bent reflections of his past
Had allowed him to see the future.

I have to believe you’re here

Poetry, Uncategorized 
Today
We put strings of butterflies
On your bench.

It just so happened 
That a single monarch 
Crossed the trail 
And lingered for a bit
As we made our way down the sandy path.

I wish I had talked to you more.

I wish I had known you better.

You were always kind of like
A half-mom,
A taken-for-granted,
Taken-for-normal
Presence in my life.
Like the sunshine 
Or the leaves.

Things have been tough since you left.
Daughter. Husband. Adopted son. 
Fragmented by the absence.

I have to believe you are here
Holding them all
In arms made of gardenias
And wind.

I have to believe you are here.

Is it karma? Is there a lesson?

I have watched people wither away
Over losing someone who was not half the person
You are. 

I have to believe you are here.