My mama ignores me,
carrying in the baskets and disappears behind the door
to the washer and dryer while granma clicks her tongue.
“Gal, are you hungry?” she ask. I say only a little bit,
watchin her as she brings out the skillet with some
bacon and eggs, listenin for mama and the door.
I hear mama stuffing the laundry as the bacon sizzles,
her sigh, the baskets sliding across the floor and I
can see the shadows moving fast like she’s dancin.

She never let me come in to help her,
granma never let me either.
“Let her alone, she can do it herself.”
Mama comes out sometimes
to fix her something to eat, openin the cabinets
softly so the hinges don’t creak.
She sends me into the laundry room to watch
the washer and dryer shake while she eats.
Mama always stuffs the washer and dryer so that
they thump, thump.
The washer and dryer thump thump so loud
you almost can’t hear them when they
argue, trying to keep everything that’s inside of them
from tumbling out.

Those days the heat and light from the lamp made her sick, so she kept it off
until our father came home, with a damp dish towel on her forehead.
“Charles,” Mama cried out in one long drawl, in that way I hated.
“Get these kids inside this house.”
No longer an equal, I marched my former comrades into our front door,
cringing as if by my age, the responsibility of the storm’s arrival rested
solely on my shoulders. I tried not to look at them too much as they
lolled on the family room rug, tracing tiny cars over its patterns, pretending to get lost
in the myriad of bright colors. I made them lemonade and set out some cookies,
ignoring one of Jesse’s friends who called me “Maw”. And every now and again I
would get up and change Mama’s terrycloth so she wouldn’t have to get up; Jesse had not
noticed yet that Mama’s feet were starting to get swollen, and I was afraid that the
rain and thunder would drown her out as it pounded over our roof.

When the heavy rains passed, we agreed that was still light enough to investigate,
taking care not to let the front door slam as we snuck out. The somber grass
was tired and wet, the leaves dripped over the ominous black trunks while a few birds still
sang on its branches. It was the lingering worms that did not scare me. Translucent as
a string of pearls, their bodies had grown fat from rain and dirt. Only a few of them
were moving about—the rest were resting in a heap, cradled in a grove in the grass.
Yet all of them were still glowing, glorious.

I held his hand as we three walked out of the doctor’s office, a little jealous as Isaac turned the cherry DumDum in his mouth with the other, so that you could see the Power Rangers Band-Aid sticking out from under his shirt sleeve. He was peaceful.
Mama, said that he was just a little boy who afraid of the needle, that was all. But a few hours later, while we sat in front of the television, Isaac pulled back the Band-Aid half-way so that you could see the dried, red splotch and it scared me. There was something about the blood being trapped on the white part of it, no longer cruising his veins, but held down only to be discarded.

But you will say that I am lost, not laying in a trash can by your desk; I
Have no choice but to befriend your old chemistry papers, an old belly button
ring, a half-eaten granola bar and a folded Coke can. You thought I talked too
much, and you didn’t want to remember that a car could become a heinous piece
of metal and plastic and leather—not a shield from death. I reminded you of a time before
grief becoming deadfall for grief, especially when I was passed around in the white-laced
album, the distant relatives cooing about miracle of genetics. They’d asked you when I
was taken and you’d say 1995 as if years could truly be protected in plastic.

So you will sit at the kitchen table, because your mother will insist on it, and you
will watch but never participate in the painful project of reorganizing the photographs.
She will see the naked slot and ask about me and you will say that “Lost”, and we will both
brood that either way, it is the truth.

Inside I notice the cracked radio in the corner first, blasting
MJ through one speaker, then the girls sitting in folding chairs stiff and
pale as paper dolls. A man with a swarthy face and amateur camera
swinging around his neck turns his head and looks me over the way my mother
doesn’t like. “Charles, grab her suit.” “Me?” I say, the way Annie did the
first time she was given a broom. He thrusts a yellow one –piece in my hand. It’s the
color of a butter-stick, and I take in the sequins about to fall off, the tear on the
left shoulder. Like an idiot, I start crying right then and there. Still, no one is paying attention
to me as I sob and I am relieved, watching a bunch of thin-raked girls throwing
a beach ball for $20.

The inside is hot and sticky like a little kid’s palms.
I notice the cracked radio in the corner first, blasting MJ through
One speaker, then the girls—sitting in folding chairs stiff and pale
As paper dolls. The beach ball and fake sand tells me this is a summer
Shoot and a man with swarthy face and amateur camera swinging around
His neck turns head from a blonde in a skimpy two piece and looks at me.
“Charles, grab her suit.” “Me?” I say out loud but he doesn’t reply,
Instead Charles thrusts a yellow one-piece in my hands. It’s the color of a
Butter stick and sparkly. I notice the sequins which are beginning to fall off,
The tear on the left shoulder and my face grows hot.