Free Skyscraping by Cordelia Jensen Page B

at the beach,
    tanning, flipping magazines.
    April and I home,
    feeding Dad:
    The only sun
    on our faces
    sliced in
    through
    half-open
    windows.

FROM DULL TO LIGHT
    We all go to him.
    His eyes move from dull
    to light
    when I tell him
    we made something
    all of us—together—
    for him.
    I press play.
    What do you love about Dad?
I ask.
    Mom answers:
    His generosity. His belief in second chances.
    And April:
    The way he used to tuck me in.
    Made me feel safe.
    Me:
    How he hums while he cooks.
    And James:
    His laugh. So deep and contagious.
    Mom:
    His creative spirit.
    April:
    How he’ll talk to anyone on the street.
    Me:
    How he always knows his opinion.
    James:
    He lectures and people listen.
    Mom:
    His creations.
    April:
    How excited he gets about what he loves.
    Me:
    How he’s always been there for me.
    What will you miss most about Dad?
    April:
    I will miss his hugs.
    Mom:
    I will miss his smile.
    James:
    I will miss his eyes.
    Me:
    I will miss his voice.
    I shut off the tape.
    All of us crying,
    Dad telling us
    not to worry,
    all four of us
    at once.

MORPHINE DREAMS
    We take turns sitting with him,
    the next few days.
    Doped up on morphine,
    his words cut
    from a collage of dreams:
    Stir the gravy—quick!
    Your mother, with wings.
    Marching, lights from sequins.
    She was born with her arms open.
    Red to purple to white.
    A party in the street.
    Class, turn to page 35.
    Wondrous creatures—

COMA
    In Astronomy,
    a coma is the glowing gas cloud
    around
    the comet’s nucleus.
    At home,
    a coma is something Dad has
    fallen into.
    Holding his cold hand
    watching his
    heavy shell of a body
    drag breaths
    wondering
what’s still
inside of him
what has already
floated up
and out.
I want to scream
    I’m sorry.
Sorry for wasting
so much time.
Not being with him.
Sorry for not
being more forgiving.
Not ready
to say goodbye.
Not knowing how
this kind of pain
ever
floats away.

THROUGH TEARS
    James says his goodbye first.
    He carries
Don Quixote.
    He blasts
La Traviata.
    April and I watch a
90210
repeat,
    try not to listen.
    When he comes out,
    April says
    she’s so sorry
    the herbs,
    the plan
    didn’t work.
    James says,
    through tears,
    It worked—
    as much as anything could have.
    He takes something from his pocket,
    pours some water.
    Moves hand to mouth quickly.
    Swallows.
    Selenium.

GATHERING
    Flip off the TV.
    Listen:
    April’s goodbye.
    Look out the window
    at all that new green life.
    She tells him in English,
    then in Spanish,
    she won’t give up fighting.
    When she leaves the room,
    I gather her in my arms,
    limb over limb,
    run my hand through
    her new short hair,
    realize that
    when I wasn’t looking
    she sprouted inches
    taller than me.

THROUGH GASPS
    Linger in the doorway,
    listen:
    Mom’s goodbye.
    She holds their flower costume
    like a child and her blankie.
    Talks about their Bermuda vacation,
    white sands, turquoise water,
    how they held each other on that beach
    for hours. How tall he was, strong.
    She says:
    I will do my best to take care of these girls—
    our girls—
    the way you did, Dale.
    Then, she says—
    through gasps—
    she will think of him
    and try harder.
    Dad’s raspy breath
    uneven now.
    I walk back through the hall,
    sign my name with my finger
    on the cold, white wall.

SPINNING CLOUD OF LIGHT
    White sheets contain his coma.
    I hold his legs, cry into them
    until there’s nothing left of me,
    let out all that I’ve been keeping in.
    Match his dragging breaths.
    In a spinning cloud of light
    I promise him:
    I will create something
    of meaning.
    I will add to the story.
    I will ask for help when I need it.
    I will not stay silent.
    I say goodbye.

THE NEUTRAL, YELLOW
DARK
    Candlelight floats over the bed.
    New Jersey skyline blinks
    out the window.
    Dad lets out his last breath.
    I kneel at his body.
    Mom and James
    decide to keep him all night.
    A thin strip
    of white moon
    hides behind a building.
    April and I sleep—
    curled into each other
    like puppies.

SILVER,