think the jury got it wrong.
And this is the tricky part:
I’m glad that they did.
Better or Worse?
I don’t think he meant it
but I think he did it.
Was this justice?
I don’t think so.
But the thought
of my brother
rotting away in a cell
is almost as hard to take
as the thought of my mother
walking around like a zombie—
not dead, but not alive—
of my father trailing behind her
picking up parts as they fall.
The Other Side
Kate’s father makes a guttural sound,
her mother yells, “No!”
and they both reach for their daughter,
who is rocking back and forth,
eyes closed.
I wince,
let out a silent sigh,
a silent I’m so sorry ,
then close my eyes, too,
hug her in my mind,
and pray she can feel it.
Shades of Memory
It’s Tuesday morning, one day down,
and I’m back in Mrs. Pratt’s room
cleaning up my space before class ends.
Javier comes over and sits down beside me.
“Hi, Liz.”
“Hi, Javier.”
He’s cracking his knuckles,
something he always does
while sitting on the bench
before a big game.
“So, I was thinking …,” he says,
and I wonder if he’s thinking
what an annoying habit that is.
But he seems so nervous
so I just say, “What?”
He covers one hand with the other
and asks me if I’ll be his date
for the prom.
His question sends a tingle through my body,
something I haven’t felt in a long time.
A tingle, I now know,
I’m capable of feeling again.
But all I can see
are pages of a magazine
with photos of two dresses,
in shades of pale yellow and sea-foam green,
and two girls cutting those pages out,
tacking them to a bulletin board
in a room filled with dance trophies.
“I’m sorry, Javier. I just can’t.”
And I leave the room before the bell rings,
before the cracking starts again,
before he can ask me why.
Picture This
It’s been a week since the trial
and Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table,
next to me, our chairs pushed close,
shoulder touching shoulder,
looking through my portfolio.
It’s a quiet moment
in sharp contrast to twenty minutes ago
when I opened my acceptance letter
from Parsons School of Design.
She’s oohing and aahing
over photos old and new
and I’m glad for the return
of her singsong sounds.
“I’ve missed looking at your work,” she says,
and I’m happy because she voiced
the words I hoped to hear.
And because I believe her.
She reaches for a picture
taken from the rear of her and Dad
as they sat together last spring
on the wrought-iron bench
in our garden out back.
“I remember that day,” she tells me.
“The irises were coming up.”
A real and true smile graces her lips.
“I didn’t know, sneaky girl,
you were hiding out behind us.”
I tell her I remember, too.
And that I loved the way she and Dad
sat silent, holding hands,
leaning into one another,
watching flowers bloom.
“I’m surprised we didn’t hear you.”
She puts the picture down,
reaches for another.
“That’s because I was PMSing,” I say.
And it doesn’t hurt
this time
to say it.
Minor and Major
It’s the middle of first period
and the hallway is empty
as I bring a note from Mrs. Pratt
to the principal’s office.
I stop at the wall near the cafeteria,
papered with college-acceptance letters.
I find my letter there.
Then I search until I find hers.
Kate’s going to Cornell.
“Impressive, huh?”
I flinch, because I didn’t hear Amanda coming.
For a girl who talks nonstop,
she’s surprisingly quiet on her feet.
“Yeah, it is. I’m happy for her.”
“Congrats on Parsons, by the way. I’m going to BU.”
Even though we still have classes together,
Amanda and I haven’t talked this much in ages.
“You holding up okay?” she asks,
gently squeezing my arm.
Her hand is warm.
“I’m holding up.”
“Kate’s holding up, too. She’s decided to minor in dance.”
Hearing this makes me want to hug Amanda,
because Kate minoring in dance
is a major-good thing.
But I don’t hug her because it still stings
not
And this is the tricky part:
I’m glad that they did.
Better or Worse?
I don’t think he meant it
but I think he did it.
Was this justice?
I don’t think so.
But the thought
of my brother
rotting away in a cell
is almost as hard to take
as the thought of my mother
walking around like a zombie—
not dead, but not alive—
of my father trailing behind her
picking up parts as they fall.
The Other Side
Kate’s father makes a guttural sound,
her mother yells, “No!”
and they both reach for their daughter,
who is rocking back and forth,
eyes closed.
I wince,
let out a silent sigh,
a silent I’m so sorry ,
then close my eyes, too,
hug her in my mind,
and pray she can feel it.
Shades of Memory
It’s Tuesday morning, one day down,
and I’m back in Mrs. Pratt’s room
cleaning up my space before class ends.
Javier comes over and sits down beside me.
“Hi, Liz.”
“Hi, Javier.”
He’s cracking his knuckles,
something he always does
while sitting on the bench
before a big game.
“So, I was thinking …,” he says,
and I wonder if he’s thinking
what an annoying habit that is.
But he seems so nervous
so I just say, “What?”
He covers one hand with the other
and asks me if I’ll be his date
for the prom.
His question sends a tingle through my body,
something I haven’t felt in a long time.
A tingle, I now know,
I’m capable of feeling again.
But all I can see
are pages of a magazine
with photos of two dresses,
in shades of pale yellow and sea-foam green,
and two girls cutting those pages out,
tacking them to a bulletin board
in a room filled with dance trophies.
“I’m sorry, Javier. I just can’t.”
And I leave the room before the bell rings,
before the cracking starts again,
before he can ask me why.
Picture This
It’s been a week since the trial
and Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table,
next to me, our chairs pushed close,
shoulder touching shoulder,
looking through my portfolio.
It’s a quiet moment
in sharp contrast to twenty minutes ago
when I opened my acceptance letter
from Parsons School of Design.
She’s oohing and aahing
over photos old and new
and I’m glad for the return
of her singsong sounds.
“I’ve missed looking at your work,” she says,
and I’m happy because she voiced
the words I hoped to hear.
And because I believe her.
She reaches for a picture
taken from the rear of her and Dad
as they sat together last spring
on the wrought-iron bench
in our garden out back.
“I remember that day,” she tells me.
“The irises were coming up.”
A real and true smile graces her lips.
“I didn’t know, sneaky girl,
you were hiding out behind us.”
I tell her I remember, too.
And that I loved the way she and Dad
sat silent, holding hands,
leaning into one another,
watching flowers bloom.
“I’m surprised we didn’t hear you.”
She puts the picture down,
reaches for another.
“That’s because I was PMSing,” I say.
And it doesn’t hurt
this time
to say it.
Minor and Major
It’s the middle of first period
and the hallway is empty
as I bring a note from Mrs. Pratt
to the principal’s office.
I stop at the wall near the cafeteria,
papered with college-acceptance letters.
I find my letter there.
Then I search until I find hers.
Kate’s going to Cornell.
“Impressive, huh?”
I flinch, because I didn’t hear Amanda coming.
For a girl who talks nonstop,
she’s surprisingly quiet on her feet.
“Yeah, it is. I’m happy for her.”
“Congrats on Parsons, by the way. I’m going to BU.”
Even though we still have classes together,
Amanda and I haven’t talked this much in ages.
“You holding up okay?” she asks,
gently squeezing my arm.
Her hand is warm.
“I’m holding up.”
“Kate’s holding up, too. She’s decided to minor in dance.”
Hearing this makes me want to hug Amanda,
because Kate minoring in dance
is a major-good thing.
But I don’t hug her because it still stings
not
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