Get out of there.
Go.
Mira, where do you think you’re going? Mom calls out.
But I just close the door.
Walk the streets, cry.
No destination in mind.
Wish I had my Walkman.
Wish my head would erase itself.
Rewind.
A car runs a red light.
The first time
Dad tried to teach me to drive,
I sideswiped
a STOP sign,
knocked the mirror off the car.
His face grew red when he told me
he wouldn’t always be there
to grab the wheel.
Miranda, you need to be careful.
Now I know:
he wasn’t just talking about me,
he was talking about himself,
telling me not to be reckless
like him.
And I realize,
every moment until now has masked this truth:
Dad was sick when he helped me with science projects,
essays on King Lear,
the Odyssey.
Dad was sick when we made eggs benedict,
black-eyed peas, angel hair.
Dad and James fell in love while sickness stirred inside them.
All this time Dad was one thing; I thought he was another.
Things can shift so quickly,
like the flick of a light.
Or maybe they’ve been changing longer, steadier,
like a sunset,
colors dragging, day left behind,
a long fade into night.
Crossing the avenue,
the light goes yellow.
A warning.
I dare myself.
Run.