WEEK 52

Ducks.
Little yellow ducks.
On the mask.
Well, masks.
One over Levi’s nose and mouth.
One over his trach.
Just to be safe, Mom said.
She held him in her lap
across the table from me.
This one scratched like the other one,
the word SNART
in rock band letters.
It was a blockage,
she said.
You did everything right,
she smiled.
Well, everything regarding Levi.
She sighed.
It only took an overnight procedure
to remove the blockage.
He’s fine now, see?
Levi smacked his hands on the table.
The doctors say you saved him, Timothy.
Your quick thinking saved his life.
Levi pulled the ducks off his face
away from his neck.
He smiled at me,
put his dirty finger in his trach,
and said,
BUH BUH
BUH BUH
and then he signed more dog
and my heart almost exploded
right there
in the visiting room
at Tall Pines, Texas Juvenile Correctional Facility.

The thing about juvie is that
it’s not like jail.
Not really.
You don’t get an end date.
They don’t just say:
You get six months in juvie!
You have to stay until they think you’re fine.
So it could be six months.
It could be a year.
It depends on me.
We’re on Timothy time now.

We fly out next week.
Mom showed me the paperwork.
We’ll stay for two weeks
for tests.
Then we’ll come home.
After we find out the results
we’ll go back for the surgery
if Dr. Sawyer thinks he can do it.
I looked at the paper.
Everything I’d worked for
typed out neatly
in rows
on a white sheet
just like any old regular paper.
So simple.
So not simple.
Regular words.
But not regular words.
I looked up at Mom.
You’ll have to tell him hi for me, OK?
Dr. Sawyer, I mean.
You’ll have to tell him thank you.

One year ago.
Like one of those machines
where the ball falls in a bucket
and knocks over a bottle
that lights a match
that pops a balloon
that scares a chicken
who lays an egg
that cracks in a pan
and makes your breakfast for you.
One year ago it all started.
One year ago I made this crazy meal
that I am still eating.

It was weird to see you guys together,
James.
Mrs. B.
In the same room, I mean.
I know you’re together together,
but seeing you here
across the table,
this one scratched with BARF,
was a little disorienting.
And even though it was weird
seeing you together
without any plants
or grouchy looks
I’ve actually missed you guys.
Can you believe that?

On my cot
in the room
they call a dorm room
though I guess it’s probably nothing like
a real dorm room.
The walls are yellow.
Yellow like Mrs. B’s hair.
Yellow like the Baby Signing Adventure DVD case.
Yellow like the lasers killing José’s aliens.
Yellow like James’s gym T-shirt.
Yellow like Mom’s wallet.
Yellow like Marisol’s scrubs.
Yellow like the stars on Isa’s fingernails.
Timothy Davidson?
One of the guards who is not called a guard
but who is still technically a guard
stood in the doorway.
Come with me.
You have a phone call.
The phones all line a hallway.
I picked one up.
I said, Hello.
There was a crackle, and then,
T-man?
I looked at the yellow wall.
I saw the words scratched there,
the words HOPE and FIGHT
and BREATHE and SUCK.
I put my hand on the cool cinder blocks
on the strength of those walls.
And I took a deep, deep breath.
Dad?