WEEK 7

James says there are no rules for this journal.
That is more confusing than a wide receiver
throwing a pass, James.
(If I talk in football language, Mrs. B,
maybe James will understand more of my words.)
For weeks it has been:
Talk more about that day, Timothy.
Tell us how you feel, Timothy.
Make sure we know you’re not a nutjob, Timothy.
And now it’s There are no rules?
Grown-ups are the worst.

I hear these little noises.
Sniffs and sad chirps.
A hiccup.
A blowing nose.
Mom is crying downstairs.

I made her cry, OK.
I made her cry
after I took the family photos off the mantel.
I made her cry
when I threw the pictures out the door and in the yard.
I made her cry
when I yelled, He left us and he’s never coming back EVER!
I said I was sorry after she stopped crying.
I picked the pictures up out of the yard.
I put them in the trunk of the car
with the rest of his stuff I’m hiding in there.
José came by on his bike,
asked me why I was talking to the car.
So I admitted it to him.
I made my mom cry.
It was me this time.
Not a bill.
Not Levi.
Not just from being so, so tired.
I admit it to you, too.
I made her cry, OK.
And then I apologized
to a bunch of photos and stuff in the trunk of our car.
Because I didn’t want Dad to hate me.
Maybe I am a nutjob.
Oh, great, now I’m crying, too.
I hate this journal.

A crackle in the breeze.
I put down my math book,
look out the front door.
Two bags on the mat,
a mat that says Fo shizzle welcome to our hizzle,
a mat Dad bought because he thought it was funny,
a mat Mom hates but won’t throw away.
Two bags on the mat.
Filled with milk and bread and cheese and meat
and even some Snickers bars.
I look down the sidewalk.
No one’s around.
I bring the mystery bag inside.
Levi kicks his happy leg.