Somehow I find myself
in front of Aunt Bee’s office door.
I stand outside, trying to
catch my breath.
Aunt Bee is packing up to go.
Charlie sits in the chair
where I sat drawing Aunt Bee
at her desk this morning.
She looks at me
and back down at her book,
like maybe she doesn’t want me
to read her eyes.
Paulie, Aunt Bee says.
I was starting to worry.
Where were you?
I shrug.
Exploring, I say.
I look at my hands,
the ones that
pushed a boy down.
my daddy,
the bully.
I know I don’t
have to be.
It’s just that when I
pushed that boy down
it felt like I had some control
over the hurricane of feelings,
whipping inside me.
I didn’t have to be sad
or mad or confused
or scared or hopeless.
I didn’t have to be
the boy who lost his daddy
because of a black man.
We follow Aunt Bee
out to the car.
It’s hot inside and
real hard to breathe.