After a few minutes, when it looks
like he’s chewed the whole bite,
I say, What happened to her?
Greg looks at me. I guess
he doesn’t know I know, since he
never saw me those days I saw her.
So it’s my turn to shrug.
I saw you playing
basketball one time, I say.
She was watching from the porch.
He doesn’t answer my question,
but he does say, Me and Daddy
used to play basketball all the time.
He stares at his carrots, cut into rings.
He played in the pros before the war.
I think he wanted me to play, too.
He made me practice all the time.
Do you like basketball? I say.
He shakes his head. I never liked it
as much as he wanted me to, he says.
He turns a red apple over in his hands.
I don’t know what to say,
so I eat the rest of my sandwich
and the potato chips Aunt Bee
bought in bulk last week. We don’t
say anything for the rest of lunch,
just sit there eating while the hum
of all the other voices rises and falls
around us. Then the bell rings and we
throw away our trash and start toward
the double doors where kids are
piling up. On our way through, Greg says,
The doctors don’t really know what’s
wrong with her. The disease took
her legs first. They don’t know
what it will take next.
He’s staring straight ahead,
closed tight where a minute ago
he had opened. And the way he
clamps shut makes me think this is
another way we’re the same,
both of us carrying around
hard shells, armor protecting
all the parts of life we don’t
understand and can’t talk about.
I don’t know what comes over me,
but I squeeze his shoulder like my
daddy used to do when I felt
disappointed or sad or just plain
confused. It’s the first time I’ve
touched him with kind hands.