Tonight, Timothy and I meet at the fence,
but he can only stay a few minutes
because his mom wants to go home right away
in case someone tries to call her
with more news about Wesley.
I don’t know what more to say, except
Take care,
Have a safe trip,
I hope everything’s okay,
but I don’t say them yet
because they’re good-bye words,
and I’m not ready for that.
Far away, an animal howls in the night,
sounding hungry or lonely. I shiver.
“My uncle thinks it’s a coyote,” Timothy says,
“so be careful.”
He looks up at the moon
hanging like a ripe grapefruit,
and sniffles. “I don’t want to go.
I’m afraid
of what we’ll find out.
But I have to go.”
What can I say to my friend to make him feel better?
A ghost of light grows in the fog
as Mama opens the back door.
She’s holding a box. “Mimi, come please.”
“Don’t go away yet,” I say to Timothy,
and run to Mama.
The box is cold all over,
and I smell roast chicken and potato salad
and chocolate cake.
“For Timothy and his mother,” she says.
“I’ll give it to him,” I say.
“You need a jacket tonight,” Mama says,
and shuts the door.
When I give the box to Timothy,
he sets it on the ground
and steps over the fence,
walks to our back door,
and knocks lightly
because Mama’s on the other side.
“Thank you, Mrs. Oliver,” he says.
But thank you wasn’t enough, because then
he says, “Arigato gozaimasu,” and bows.
Mama bows back. “No . . . no.
The person who is kind to our daughter
is the one we love,” she says.
Timothy’s hands twitch, like he wants to hug Mama,
but she takes care of that by hugging him first,
quickly. “You be a good boy for your mother, okay?”
He nods, and sneaks me a glance that makes me giggle inside.
But when we go back to the fence, it’s not as funny.
“I’ll write to you,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “I’ll look at the moon,
and you look at the moon.
And wherever Wesley is,
he can look at the moon, too.”
“Yeah, it will be like
we’re all looking through the same hole in your moon box.”
He remembers.
Then it’s our turn to hug good-bye,
not too quick—but just long enough
to say what we don’t have words for
I’ll miss you,
I hope Wesley’s okay,
I hope I can see you again,
Maybe things will go back
to the way they are now,
Or maybe that time is over.
“You be a good boy, okay?” I say.
He smiles. “You, too—
but a girl,”
and we laugh.
Then he picks up the box and crosses his yard.
I wait by the fence and watch him.
I’m still at the fence when he goes into the house,
out of sight.