Mrs. Eames murmuring that story sent me somewhere better than sleep: from my stiff-backed
body in my sleeping bag into Emily’s bed in her place. Under the covers I watched her mother’s
lips, pale and unpainted, undrawn and dry. Like low tide her words lapped against me; they
flowed over the edge I’d somehow honed. Steeped in what she spoke it dissolved there: I filled a
room unlike ever before.
I woke and walked home, body-bound
again. That day after I felt both paid-back
and
owed. Guilty too, of a fingerless mislaying or theft, the thing not mine enough to move. I ignored
how large this feeling grew, never again even peeked at my friend’s face; winced my way up
through several grades instead.
Then I sat on a step-edge
fronting empty Central Middle, left behind alone by the bus.
Ms. Hall’s heels struck the concrete further up on the flight. I leveled with her dress hem when
she stopped. She asked me where I lived: on-the-way
of her drive. She wafted perfume as we got
in. Her floral scent bloomed up my nose, into my lungs, farther inside. How it flowed should’ve
felt unfamiliar.
She tuned to a station where synths fuzzed with age, winking as she spun the volume up.
As we eyed the high-beamed
roads her voice surprised me: a no-notice
lilting to the song. What
first felt like overhearing further stirred me inside. The current charged up, took my tongue. I
hummed along with her tune, heard our messy duet: a harmony I’ll never misconstrue.
Now I tend Ms. Marks’ yard instead of studying for tests, behind the high school bus stop
and her hedge. I drip a watering can over waxy plant leaves; store-bought
tulips settle where I’ve
scooped out soil. She unperches from her post on the front porch with my help, so we can kneel
and get wrist-deep
in dirt. Stray specks stick to both our upper lips; we try to outspit
each other
on the ground.
Across the street my own yard keeps on yellowing.
For her I feign class factoids or gossipy snips. I’ve caught on that she craves displays of
youth; that what words I imbue don’t mean much, she only sees; tables both her ear aids on the
terrace.
Mom still types in the neighboring town until late, still suits herself in scratchy blues and
blacks; the chalky whiff of gel and lipstick ever-helmeting
her head.