Free Skyscraping by Cordelia Jensen Page A

stems,
    Dad says it isn’t their finest work.
    Mom agrees.
    But I think it is.

RECORDING SESSION
    June
    SESSION EIGHT
    Okay, Dad, it’s almost graduation.
    Seven whole weeks past—
    Doomsday.
    Yeah.
    So time for some real serious questions.
    Uh-oh.
    What’s the best meal you ever ate?
    (Laughs)
    Probably one I had in Italy one summer with your mother before you were born. It was the kind of meal that went on for hours.
    What about your happiest childhood memory?
    My mama teaching me to sew.
    The time you felt most proud of yourself?
    The day I was accepted to college.
    And it’s almost your turn now.
    No rush.
    Not yet.
    Nope—first you have to walk the stage.
    (Long pause)
    Dad, why are you crying?
    Don’t worry, honey. These are happy tears.

ENDINGS ARE BEGINNINGS
    I stand in a sea of black,
    a group of graduates,
    of smiles and sweat,
    lining up,
    marching forward, under
    the brightest lights.
    Chloe salutes me, flashes her Vans.
    Dylan half smiles at me, I smile back.
    We, the class of 1994,
    face
    the crowd.
    A big-deal news reporter talks
    about the opportunity
    to go forth unafraid, follow your future,
    trust your path, make
    your way,
    look back on this time and remember it was special.
    Her voice floats away like
    a drifting log
    and all I can see is him:
    smiling large,
    bright blue eyes
    focused right on me.
    Dad Is Here.
    I exhale deep as
    he lifts his long, thin arm
    and waves.

NEVER LETS GO
    A few nights later,
    Chloe and I
    meet up with some other
    girls from our class.
    She wants us to try
    to get into a dance club
    to celebrate our independence.
    Skirt flowing,
    letting Chloe put toffee lipstick on me
    when the phone rings.
    Mom:
    Dad
    back in the hospital.
    Chloe
    forgets the club,
    hails the cab,
    comes to the hospital
    and even though we aren’t dancing
    she never lets go of my hand.

IN TUBES
    April meets me in the lobby,
    face wet, says he’s in Intensive Care,
    I tell Chloe to go,
    I’ll call with updates.
    The fluorescent light
    coats us, Dad back in tubes,
    all of us in masks.
    The monitor beeps.
    Mom puts her hand on my back.
    Pneumonia,
    she says.

THE SOUND OF IT
    Home for a few hours,
    then in the morning,
    back at the hospital.
    James steps out,
    gives April and me some time.
    Mom spent the night last night,
    asks if I want a turn.
    Dad’s moved from Intensive Care
    to a private room.
    If it weren’t for his diaper, the IVs,
    it could almost seem like a hotel.
    I place an amethyst on his chest,
    he smiles,
    curls his fingers around it.
    Says when he dies, he wants a party.
    Nothing sad, he says, a celebration of life.
    I tell him
shhh,
    ask if he wants to watch TV.
    Hoarsely, he whispers
    put on something brilliant.
    Lucky for us,
    Amadeus
is on.
    Mozart’s hands speeding
    over the piano keys
    as Salieri seethes
    with jealousy.
    Dad tries to conduct
    a few times with his hands
    but they are attached to
    too many things.
    A nurse comes in,
    asks him to not move around
    so much.
    The credits roll as Mozart
    releases his last
    high-pitched cackle
    over the screen’s darkness.
    Dad laughs too.
    I imagine the sound echoing
    through the hospital hallways,
    shaking the pill bottles
    right off that nurse’s tray.

DECLARATION
    The doctor says
    there’s nothing more anyone can do.
    He made it longer than they expected.
    She’s sending him home
to be comfortable,
she says.
    Though none of us say it,
    his wheezing, coughing, skeletal body
    shows us
    what she really means.

CHECKMATE
    Back in my parents’ bedroom.
    Dad asks me to promise
    I will take a road trip someday.
    Drive it all by myself.
    That I will learn to play chess.
    I say I promise;
    he closes his eyes.
    I lie down next to him.
    For this moment,
    we are both
    still and
    breathing.

THROUGH WINDOWS
    April and I take turns
    spooning Dad broth
    from a blue ceramic bowl.
    No more herbs.
    No more custard apple.
    Crystals just sitting
    on the windowsill,
    blinking their light.
    No more Gloria,
    just hospice workers.
    Other teens