I wasn’t quiet before.
I liked to talk,
especially after Little League games;
Mom would take us to get ice cream,
double scoops of Rocky Road.
When we lost, she let me get a triple scoop,
which always made me feel better.
It wasn’t the ice cream, it was the way
I could talk to her about everything.
It’s like the ice cream was
made of magic;
it let the words drift out of me.
Words about how hard
math homework is.
Words about the way
that sometimes
the boys on the playground
told Cole that he wasn’t really a boy.
We talked about cartoons and toy soldiers.
I showed her my drawings,
and she asked so many questions.
She looked and listened
with her whole body.
I guess
I should have been listening
more to her.
I didn’t know about
her problems inside.
When she left,
I felt like part of my voice
went with her.
It’s been three months since we took
her past the Golden Gate Bridge,
up and down
the roller-coaster hills
to what she says is the city’s heart,
to the hospital.
Big trees in the garden,
roses planted in a circle
around a fountain
where I threw in every penny I had.
She can talk to us on the phone,
but we can only visit her once a month.
It’s part of her treatment.
She tells me that she’s sick
on the inside.
She says that the roads
her thoughts take
are too windy for now,
and she needs help
straightening them out.
She told me the best thing I can do
is pray for her,
take care of my dad,
spend time with my grandfather
until she gets back.
When she reached down
to say goodbye one last time,
she said, I love you, Etan,
just like when she used to tuck me in
after she finished a story.
But when I opened my mouth
to say it back,
no words
came out.