Heartbeat Page 2

  that when I was ten

  I suddenly jumped off a swing

  and said

  Why are we here?

  I remember that moment—

  how I was swinging

  and feeling so happy and free

  watching the people in the park

  all the mothers and fathers and

  grandmas and grandpas and

  children

  going to and fro

  but suddenly I felt shivery

  alone and apart

  dizzy from seeing all those people

  and multiplying them by all the people

  in all the towns and cities

  in the world

  and I jumped from the swing

  with my urgent question:

  Why are we here?

  In the park? Max asked.

  No! I shouted.

  Why are we here

  on this earth?

  Max scowled at me.

  I don’t know, do I?

  he said.

  Am I supposed to do something

  important?

  It doesn’t seem enough

  to merely take up space

  on this planet

  in this country

  in this state

  in this town

  in this family.

  I know why Max wants to be

  a famous athlete

  but I do not yet know

  what I should be

  or

  do.

  QUESTIONS

  When I ask Max why he hates our town

  he shrugs

  aims his deep gray eyes at me

  then turns and sweeps his arm

  through the air

  as if he has waved it over the whole town

  and he says

  Too small.

  Always the same.

  I want to see what is out there—

  and he stands on tiptoe

  as if he could see over the tops

  of the trees

  to the rest of the world.

  I don’t understand Max.

  The town seems huge to me

  and never the same

  everything changes:

  the light, the smells, the sounds

  and people coming and going

  and growing bigger and older.

  When Max says he will open camps

  for boys like him

  I ask him what kind of boy that is

  and he aims his eyes at me again

  and keeps them there

  and keeps them there

  and keeps them there

  as he lifts one hand

  to remove a leaf from my hair

  and he says

  Boys with nothing.

  And he will not stand still for my reply.

  He is already off and running

  while I am wondering if I am part

  of

  the

  nothing.

  FEARS AND LOVES

  My teacher, Mr. Welling, asked us

  to make a list of things we fear.

  I did not want to do it

  my mind would not go there

  until Mr. Welling said that after

  we made our list of things we fear

  we would make a list of things we love.

  Things I Fear:

  I am afraid of war

  of shootings and murders

  of other people killing our people

  because our people killed their people

  because their people killed our people

  on and on

  until maybe nobody will be left.

  I am afraid of dying

  and of my family dying

  of disappearing

  and not knowing

  that you have disappeared

  or being left alone

  with no one to love you.

  Things I Love:

  I love running

  out in the air

  smelling the trees and grass

  feeling the wind on my face

  and the ground on my feet.

  I love drawing

  because it feels like running

  in your mind

  and on a blank page

  a picture appears

  straight out of your mind

  a phantom treasure.

  I love laughing

  and hearing people laugh

  because the sound of it

  is rolling and free and full.

  I love many many things

  which sound too sappy

  to write about.

  Later, I hear others talking about

  their fears and loves.

  Some fear:

  algebra and tests

  essays and reports.

  I am not good at these things

  but I do not fear them

  and I wonder if I am wrong.

  I wonder if I am supposed to fear them.

  Many of them love:

  candy and television

  weekends and sleeping.

  I like these things

  but I do not love them

  and I wonder if I am supposed to love them

  and I wonder if

  I have done the assignment wrong

  and when I look at my own list

  of fears and loves

  they seem too big

  maybe not what the teacher had in mind

  maybe not

  but I am feeling stubborn

  and so I do not erase them.

  PUMPKIN ALIEN

  My father speaks to the alien baby

  aiming his words

  at my mother’s abdomen:

  Hell-ooo, pumpkin alien baby

  he says

  how are you today?

  He consults the baby book.

  Let’s see, pumpkin alien baby

  you are nearly four months old

  and you are this big—

  he holds his hands

  about four inches apart—

  and you have fingers and toes

  and are sprouting little tooth buds!

  My father looks amazed

  and my mother smiles

  and I try to imagine

  how this happens.

  How does the alien baby

  know how to grow fingers and toes

  and little tooth buds?

  I run my tongue over my own teeth

  smooth and slippery

  like polished stones.

  I feel the slim space

  between the front ones

  a narrow doorway

  for a sliver of air.

  And I think about Grandpa’s teeth

  upstairs

  in an old jelly jar

  on a lace doily

  beside his bed.

  That night I dream

  of an alien pumpkin

  round and bright orange

  with two rows of white teeth

  clacking.

  FRIED CHICKEN

  Grandpa’s room is next to mine

  Annie! he calls. Annie, Annie, Annie!

  I rush in

  find him sitting in the blue chair.

  A piece of paper rests in his lap

  a pencil in his hand.

  Annie, Annie!

  How did I make fried chicken?

  I would laugh except he is so earnest

  in his question

  a frown on his face

  his eyes big and wide.

  I can’t remember how I made fried chicken!

  I touch his hand and

  tell him I will ask my mother

  and Grandpa says

  Hurry!

  My mother is in the backyard

  snipping the remains of lavender

  from a frosted plant.

  Smell this

  she says

  rubbing her fingers against the silvery leaves

  and holding them to my nose.


  It’s a calming, soothing smell

  softer than pine

  gentler than roses.

  I tell her about Grandpa’s question

  and my mother looks puzzled.

  She says

  But Grandpa made fried chicken

  every single week for—for—maybe forty years!

  How could he not remember how he made

  fried chicken?

  She wipes her hands on her jeans

  and goes to Grandpa

  where she explains exactly how

  Grandpa used to make fried chicken

  which is exactly how my mother

  makes it now.

  When she is done explaining

  Grandpa says, Again. I want to write it down.

  And so my mother repeats the process

  and Grandpa writes it all down

  and then says

  Now how did you make those strawberries?

  Strawberries? my mother says.

  You know, you had them once

  when your mom and I came over

  and you were living in the yellow apartment—

  But that was ten years ago!

  my mother says

  sitting on the bed beside

  Grandpa’s chair.

  Grandpa waves his hand in the air.

  They were in a little white bowl

  strawberries

  all cut up.

  They were so good.

  How did you make them?

  My mother bites her lip.

  I think I just cut them up.

  I bought some strawberries

  and I cut them up

  and I put them in that bowl.

  Maybe I sprinkled a little sugar on top.

  That’s all I did.

  Grandpa nods.

  Well, they were very good strawberries.

  In my parents’ room

  I lift the miniature white T-shirt

  from the basket that holds

  a few little things for the baby.

  The shirt seems infinitely small

  too small for any living person

  and I wonder if the alien baby

  can think now

  and if it can think

  what does it think?

  And what did I think

  when I was small

  and why did I forget?

  And what else will I forget

  when I grow older?

  And if you forget

  is it as if

  it never happened?

  Will none of the things

  you saw or thought or dreamed

  matter?

  I fold the shirt and replace it in the basket

  and I race down the steps

  and out the door

  and leap off the porch

  into the chilly air

  and run run run

  over fallen leaves

  yellow and brown

  glazed with frost:

  crunch, crunch, crunch.

  SAVING

  As I run past the church

  I see Mrs. Cobber

  and she calls to me

  Annie-banany!

  You going to clean my porch today?

  Yes, Mrs. Cobber-obber

  I’ll be there later

  and she salutes me

  as I run up the hill.

  In the summer, I mow Mrs. Cobber’s lawn

  with her old push mower

  smelling of rust and oil.

  It’s a small lawn

  easy to mow

  and when you are done

  it looks as if you have done

  so much more

  than walk back and forth

  a few times with a little old mower

  and Mrs. Cobber is so pleased

  with the newly mown lawn.

  She acts as if it is the best present

  she has received in a long, long time.

  In the fall, I rake her leaves

  and in the winter tidy the garage

  and the back porch

  both filled with old creaky things:

  benches and chairs and lamps

  musty, dusty, and intriguing

  (Who sat on this bench? This chair?

  Who used this lamp?)

  She pays me for these chores

  even though my father said

  I should do them for free

  but Mrs. Cobber insisted

  saying that I should save the money

  for something special.

  I know exactly what I will buy

  and I am thinking of this when

  I hear

  Hey, Annie!

  Hey, Max!

  and we fall into step thump-thump

  beside each other

  my feet tingling from the frosted ground

  and when we come to the bench

  I suddenly feel shy with Max

  aware of his long legs and long arms

  and his breath floating into the air

  and the silence seems full of something

  I do not understand

  and so I fill up the silence.

  I tell him about the chores for Mrs. Cobber

  and about the money

  I am saving for something special

  and I know Max gets paid for working at the diner

  so I ask him if he is saving for something special

  and he doesn’t even blink

  he wiggles his feet and says

  Running shoes!

  And he tells me he has to have them

  for the track meets in the spring

  because the coach won’t let him run barefoot

  and he has to get them in time

  to break them in

  and he hopes they work

  because he has to win the meets

  he has to

  and then he tells me

  again

  for the nine millionth time

  that I should join the girls’ team

  that I am stupid not to

  and what am I afraid of

  and I tell him I am not afraid

  I do not want to join the team

  I like to run by myself

  or with Max

  and he knows that I am mad

  and so he asks me what I am saving for.

  I tell him

  about the box of charcoal pencils

  soft and black as night

  and colored pencils

  with every pastel color

  and the paper

  thick and white

  on which you can draw

  whatever you want

  and he nods

  as if he understands how much I want

  the pencils and paper

  and how they are not ordinary ones

  but special ones

  and I like this about Max

  that I do not have to explain

  but then as we turn to run back

  he says—

  as if he cannot help himself—

  But you really should join the team

  and he takes off very fast

  thump-thump, thump-thump

  and my heart matches my steps

  thump-thump, thump-thump

  as I take off after him

  forgetting the pencils and paper

  and the team I do not want to join

  forgetting everything

  as I run.

  FOOTNOTES

  In school we are learning footnotes.1

  It made me laugh to hear them called

  FOOTnotes.

  I pictured little notes on my feet

  and could not stop giggling

  as Mr. Welling tried to explain

  why we needed to do footnotes2

  and the exact, correct format

  and we had to practice

  everything exactly right

  with the commas and the colons

  in the right place.

  He
was very

  par-tic-u-lar.

  And I liked getting everything

  in the right place

  and knowing there was a plan

  for how to do it right

  but then I could not get the footnotes

  out of my mind

  and started putting them everywhere—

  on spelling tests

  and on math homework—

  and just about everywhere

  where I wanted to add a little explanation

  (which you do not normally have a chance to do

  on tests or homework)

  but I am not sure all of my teachers

  appreciate the footnotes3

  and now I am dreaming

  in footnotes

  which is a peculiar thing.

  I dreamed of running past the barn

  and in my head I saw a footnote

  which said

  Faded red barn

  and when I passed the church

  I saw a footnote

  Old stone church

  and on like that

  footnotes for every little thing

  and when I stopped at the red bench

  and looked at the soles of my feet

  all the little notes were printed there

  in charcoal pencil

  and somehow it pleased me

  that the notes were there

  imprinted on my feet—

  footnotes.

  THE SKELETON