Right after I come into the house, I take off my shoes,
walk into the kitchen for a glass of milk
and a candy bar. I hear
Daddy’s bare feet on the stairs,
walking right on by without even asking
How was your day, little man?
Hear his bedroom door slam.
Want to run up the stairs after him
want to grab him, say
Dad, come back down. Hug me.
Ask me about my day,
like you used to.
Then Mom is in the kitchen,
getting her afternoon coffee, the pot
bubbling while we sit silently eating tiny pieces
of candy to make the sweetness last.
She only eats candy bars
when she’s worrying. Chocolate, she says,
helps me think.
Tell me something, I finally say.
Tell me what’s happening with Dad.
Outside, a whole flock of sparrows
cry out as they fly away, the sounds they make
fading before my mom says
More doctors. More “It could be this, it could be that.”
I ask her Aren’t doctors supposed
to be able to figure it out? And if they can’t, then
how are they going to fix him?
He’s not broken, ZJ, my mom says back.
He’s just not himself right now.
When’s he gonna play ball again?
They don’t know.
When will his head stop hurting?
They don’t know.
When’s he gonna be himself again?
They don’t know.
I want to scream What do they know?!
But my mom is sipping her coffee.
One sugar, a little milk.
The birds have all flown off somewhere.
The kitchen is quiet as a prayer.
When I look at my mom again, her eyes are closed
and her lips are moving, silently.
And then, almost too soft to hear but I hear it anyway,
she says
In Jesus’s name, I pray. Amen.