When Jasper Could Fly

...it’s like that dream where I am trying to get somewhere. I have this recurring dream that I am trying to get to something or get someplace. It’s urgent. I don’t remember why. But it feels so urgent in the dream. Sometimes it’s like I have to get somewhere and sometimes it is like I am being chased. And my legs won’t move… no, that’s not it… they will move but not the way I want them to. I know these legs. I have been chasing squirrels for 10 years on these legs. Let me tell you … they can move. But in the dream, suddenly I can’t run. It almost hurts, but in a frustrating way, not in a painful way. And I am looking down and I can’t see anything wrong, but I can’t get going.

I remember when I was a puppy I had the same dream, and at some point in the dream I would remember that I can fly. I would reach out and start to soar just above the ground. And it wouldn’t even freak me out. It was like, of course I can fly! 

All those things you think you’ll regret when you’re young. The embarrassing mistakes, the precious item chewed, the baths, the piece of food on the ground you didn’t notice until the cat got it. None of that ended up bothering me. It's that dream. Why don't I remember I can fly?

Lithe Turkeys

Jesse stares at his long slender fingers and thinks about all the turkeys he has made over the years at Thanksgiving time using these fingers. Fingers he, apparently, got from his mother. When he gave his grandmother the turkey he had drawn for her last Thanksgiving, she put it up on the refrigerator with delight saying, “You got your mothers hands, Jesse! These fingers certainly did not come from my people. Lithe fingers make lithe turkeys.”

One hour and 37 minutes ago, Jesse and his mother stopped talking to each other. As she had so many times before when they fought, Jesse’s mother instructed him that he did not need to talk to her any more, but he did have to stay in the same room with her.

In that time he completed his math homework, read his favorite issue of Mad Magazine and the comics section of the newspaper, eaten a bowl of cereal and periodically stared at his hands when the distractions failed.

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

…the sound of water dripping from the edge of the roof on the soaked ground. As he traces the outline of his left hand fingers with the tips of his right thumb and forefinger, he listens to the sound of the rain. Anything but his head.

There is a knot in his chest that has been there for the last two hours. Maybe it has always been there. Why is it there? This is what he hates most about it. He doesn’t know why it is there – does not want to know why it is there. And now he is stuck in this room with his mom.

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

At exactly one hour and 57 minutes, Jesse cries. Not hard. Just tears. Jesse’s mother gets up and rests her hand on his head.

“What is it, my love?”

He doesn’t know what to say. He is furious at her. How could she kiss someone who wasn’t his dad? It was disgusting. He hated her.

“I don’t know,” he weeps.

“Where does it hurt?”

He curls his hand into a fist and places it on his sternum.

She walks over to the couch and sits down. She pats the space next to her, “Come lay down.”

He gets up and walks over to her and sits down. She motions for him to put his head in her lap. He lays down with his legs draped over the end of the couch. She puts her hand on his chest and strokes his hair with her other hand. Tears stream down the sides of his face, into his ears and around the back of his neck.

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap…

Jesse rolls to his side facing away from his mother and curls up in a ball. She continues to stroke his hair.

“Are you going to marry him?”

“It was just a kiss, Jesse. Getting married couldn’t be further from my mind.”

“I hate him.”

“You haven’t even met him.”

“I don’t care. I hate him.” He curls up tightly and cries. Crocodile tears soak his mother’s jeans as he sobs into his fists.

She curls down over him and wraps her arms around him tightly. “I don’t know how to do this, Jesse. I don’t know what to say to you to make it go away. But I just need you to know that I love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone. I am not going anywhere. I will always be here for you.”

“You could die, too.”

“Yes I could. But I will still be here for you.”

“How?”

“Look at your hands. They are my hands.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.”

“You can’t promise me that you will never leave.”

“Ok, technically I can’t. But we can’t live paralyzed that someday I might die or that you might die. At some point we have to just say, ‘Ok, I get what you mean.’ I’m going to do everything in my power to be here for you always and there is a very good chance that I will be able to keep that promise for a long time.”

Jesse sobs and the rain falls.

“What is it, really?”

“Sometime it just seems impossible.”

“What seems impossible?”

“I don’t know. This day. This life. Sometimes I don’t think about it at all and I do my stuff and everything is ok. And then sometime I just can’t imagine how I am going to do it without him. How am I going to do it without him?”

She wants to tell him that he will do it with her. That she is strong enough but instead she is quiet.

“There is nothing to look forward to,” Jesse sobs.

With everything in her power she holds back the tears. She strokes his hair. And he sobs.

And I said...

It rains when you cry. Do you remember that? Ask the dog. Ask the birds. Ask the trees. They know. Sometimes when it is bad there is thunder and lightening. The last time we met, before you were born, you were so excited. In only the way someone who is beginning a grand adventure can be. We laid it all out. It was to be the grandest adventure yet. You woke me up to be there for you. I winced when you told me the plan. It wasn’t that I thought it was a bad idea. I knew if anyone could do it, you could. I just couldn’t bear the thought of standing by silent and invisible as you wandered about the dark, empty universe, knocking your knees on ill placed furniture, freezing and alone, screaming at the stars. Do you remember the agreement we made? I said, how will you remember me after you’re born? And you said, butterflies? And I said, too cliché. How about the rain? And you said, just rain? And I said, no. It will rain when you’re sad. That is how you will remember me. And you said, sounds kind of dramatic. And as you turned and walked away, I said, and they will name you Jesse. After me.

Pretty in Pink

Dr. Willis: That’s a very interesting outfit you have on today, Jesse. Do you want to tell me about it?

Jesse: You like it? I am not sure this is my color.

Dr. Willis: No. You look great. Really. It’s just a little out of character and I want to be sure everything is ok.

Jesse: Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t worry. I am not wearing this because it’s my new thing. I’m doing it for someone else.

Dr. Willis: Well, I’m not going to lie to you. I am dying to hear the story.

Jesse: You aren’t the only one.

Dr. Willis: So who are you doing this for?

Jesse: Steve Appleton.

Dr. Willis: Hm. And who is Steve Appleton?

Jesse: He’s a kid at school that no one likes.

Dr. Willis: Why don’t people like him?

Jesse: It started in grade school. He smelled bad and he was mean. I used to wonder which one came first: Did we not like him because he smelled bad and so then he became mean because no one liked him or was he mean and no one liked him and so we all talked about how bad he smelled because we didn’t like him. But every time I tried to be friends with him he ended up saying something mean or rude.

Dr. Willis: Ok so the kids didn’t like him because he was mean and maybe because he smelled bad too.

Jesse: Someone once showed me the house he lived in. It was dirty and old and run down. They said his mother was really really fat and she never left the house. I wondered what it was like to live in that house. I felt sorry for him.

Dr. Willis: Do you know for sure that those things are true?

Jesse: No, I guess not. But either way none of the kids liked him. No one really picked on him in grade school that I know of; they mostly just ignored him. He was way smaller than all the boys and girls. He was bad in sports and he was picked last for all the teams in gym and he wasn’t real smart either, so it just kind of seemed like he didn’t have anything he was good at. Because he was just kind of not there, no one noticed one day when he stopped smelling bad. By the time we got to junior high he didn’t have anything that made him stand out other than that he was always by himself.

Dr. Willis: But you do that so he wasn’t the only one.

Jesse: Yeah. But it’s different for me than it is for him.

Dr. Willis: How so?

Jesse: Well… people like me. Or they really want to like me … or they really want me to like them. I don’t know. Maybe they just feel sorry for me. Whatever. People don’t mess with me. Nobody likes Steve. They usually ignore him but sometimes they pick on him. He is bigger now but he is still pretty weak and he dresses real lame. People just don’t like Steve and it seems like he doesn’t like them either.

Dr. Willis: Have you asked him about that?

Jesse: No. I’ve thought about talking to him. But he isn’t really friendly. He won’t look me in the eyes. I don’t want to be his friend bad enough to deal with that.

Dr. Willis: That’s ok. So tell me what happened to Steve Appleton.

Jesse: Ok. Well. So last week, I found out that Steve wears girl’s underwear. Pink, silky, ruffled underwear.

Dr. Willis: Oh no.

Jesse: I know. I never hear anything about what goes on at Redwood Junior High and even I knew about it the same day someone figured it out. I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t even want to think about what the kids were gonna to do to him.

Dr. Willis: Poor kid.

Jesse: I know. It was mostly the boys who tortured him. I don’t even want to tell you about it. It was bad. I wanted to stick up for him but you just can’t do that. It will only make it worse. Not only is he the kid who wears girl’s underwear but he has to have someone protect him too.

Dr. Willis: Yeah I can see that.

Jesse: But I wanted to do something. I knew I couldn’t talk to him because he wasn’t going to believe anything I said. But I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

Dr. Willis: That’s very nice, Jesse.

Jesse: So I was sitting in my room thinking about Steve and I remembered something my grandmother always says that I never really understand. “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.” And all of a sudden I think I kind of knew what she meant. I knew saying something wasn’t going to help anything. I needed to do something.

Dr. Willis: So you wore a dress to school.

Jesse: Yeah. I wore a dress to school. I asked my mom if I could borrow a dress and I wore it to school.

Dr. Willis: And how did that idea go over with mom?

Jesse: She freaked out. Of course. But I told her that it was something I had to do and that everything would be ok. And she stared at me for a long time crying and then she helped me pick out a dress that looked good on me.

Dr. Willis: That is amazing, Jesse.

Jesse: I know. I couldn’t believe it.

Dr. Willis: So did this all happen today?

Jesse: No. I figured that if it was going to mean anything I'd have to do it for a little while so I've been wearing a dress every day since Tuesday.

Dr. Willis: And how’s it going?

Jesse: It’s going ok. I mean people freaked out. But no one said anything. That first day, everywhere I went, it was totally quiet. But no one was paying attention to Steve anymore, that’s for sure.

Dr. Willis: Did Steve see you?

Jesse: Everyone saw me. I was hard to miss. He didn’t say anything. I wondered if he thought I was making fun of him.

Dr. Willis: I guess that could have been possible.

Jesse: But I can’t do anything about that. What am I going to do? Walk up to him in a dress and say, “I am not making fun of you, Steve.”

Dr. Willis: Did your teachers say anything?

Jesse: No. I just walked around school like everything was totally normal and no one said anything. I think the school called my mom and whatever she said to them, they left me alone.

Dr. Willis: How long are you going to wear a dress to school?

Jesse: A couple of more days, I guess. I think that’s enough.

Dr. Willis: Well … I have say. Pink really is your color.

Jesse: Whatever.

Dr. Willis: I’m kind of serious.

Jesse: Thanks.

Crushing on Jesse

Every day the final bell rings at 3:35. Jesse will be at his bike 3:40. So if I want to see him, I have to have all of my books and everything I need with me in my last class, which is History with Mrs. Douton. Actually, the first semester it was Social Studies, and now it’s History … American History. I love Mrs. Douton because she tells it like it’s a story, and I remember it because it’s interesting. I had a Social Studies teacher in a different city a couple of years ago named Mrs. Stevenson, and she was horrible. If I was doing something wrong she would come up to me and grab my arm and start screaming at me with her teeth clenched and point her brown, fat, crooked finger in my face. In front of everyone. I have never been screamed at by any teacher or anyone in my whole life, for the most part. I mean, yes maybe my mom or dad once or twice, here and there. But I’m kind of a quite and shy person and if there is one thing I hate, it is being yelled at. Especially in front of other people. So if Mrs. Stevenson had just come up to me and said, “If you don’t stop acting bad, I am going to yell at you in front of the whole class,” I totally would have stopped doing what I was doing and would have been as good as any kid could have possibly been. Mrs. Douton is a great teacher and I love her class. Best of all she has us take essay tests instead of question and answer or multiple-choice tests – where you have to remember names and dates  – and I love that. I love essay tests because I get to write about what I know. She taught us that the best way to write an essay test is to start with what you want to say in the first paragraph, then follow it up with paragraphs where you go into more detail about what you said in the first paragraph, and then write a final paragraph wrapping it up. So if the question were, “How did the civil war impact the south socially, politically and economically,” I would say something about how the South was negatively impacted socially, economically and politically by the civil war, and then I would write three paragraphs on each of those areas, and then I would write a final paragraph summing up what I said. I do very well on these essay tests. In fact, I have the highest score in the class. The only reason I know that is because there is another girl who wants to be Mrs. Douton’s pet, and she wants to be the best in the class, and when she thought she had the best score on an essay test, Mrs. Douton told her that, actually, I was the one who had the best score. Ever since then she compares her scores to mine. I always seem to get one or two points more than she does every time. It drives her crazy. I don’t really care, but I do get a little satisfaction watching her get so irritated. She is really pretty and has big boobs … like really big boobs … and all the boys like her. One of the reasons I like Jesse is because he doesn’t pay attention to her. But he doesn’t pay attention to anyone. I have this fantasy that if he would get to know me, that maybe I could be the one person who understands him and maybe he could be the one person who understands me. The other day I was walking to my locker and this really popular girl named Michelle, out of nowhere, yells my name. I don’t think she has ever spoken to me, so I was a little freaked out. Kids don’t really hurt each other at this school like they did at my last school, so I didn’t think she was going to hurt me. But why all of a sudden would she want anything to do with “the new girl.” I stopped and pretended like we chit chat every day in the hall and said, “Yeah?” And she says, “Are those your favorite pants?” And I say, “Yeah.” Because they are my favorite pants. My grandmother bought these pants for me right before we moved here and they are really cool. They were expensive and I never get expensive clothes because my parents can’t afford it, but she bought them for me as a going away gift, so I could start school with some new clothes. I love them because they make me look skinny and the part around my ankles is pegged the way I like them. I couldn’t believe she was asking me that question, because, yes, indeed these are my favorite pants. And then she smiled and said, “I thought so because you wear them all the time.” There were two popular boys, Tim and Sean, standing with her and they laughed and went back to ignoring me. I looked over and Jesse was sitting reading at a picnic table near by. I don’t know if he heard what she said. I can’t decide if I wish he heard her and hates her and therefore likes me because of it, or if I hope he didn’t hear her because it was really embarrassing. I mean, not all of us are so rich that we can buy enough pants that we can wear a different pair every day. All the things I could have said in that moment… none of them came to me in the moment. Later that night I kept going over and over it in my head. I decided that the best approach would have been head on. Instead of coming up with an equally nasty response, I would just call her out on being mean. I would say that my family is poor and that we don’t have the money to buy lots and lots of clothes, but that I wash my clothes and do the best I can, and then I would thank her for taking the opportunity to humiliate me in front of others and tell her that I hope being mean makes her feel really good about herself. I just want to say that I really love these pants and even if I did have 20 pairs of pants, I would still wear these pants a lot. Maybe if Jesse did hear her, he knows that I, too, do not have a lot of friends, and that because I didn’t say anything back he knows that I am quiet and shy like he is, and that because we are both that way and have very few friends we would be perfect for each other. I don’t mean we have to be boyfriend and girlfriend. Maybe we would just be best friends who understand each other. But we are only in one class together, and I never get to see him. So at the end of the day I take all of my stuff with me to history class and sit by the door, and as soon as the bell rings, I race out the door and pace myself to arrive at the bike racks right about the time Jesse does. I walk by, paying close attention to not pay attention to Jesse, and then time my steps to be halfway down the hill as Jesse rides by. I make sure that there are no other kids around me so that when Jesse rides by, he can clearly see me. Alone. Just like he is. I wonder if he even knows my name.

Amazing Alexia and Those Bratty Girls

I am looking at her. She is talking to me and I am looking at her and I don’t know what is going on. Why is she talking to me? She does not like me. Wendy does not like me and none of her friends like me. They are a group and they don’t like me.

I don’t know why they don’t like me. I know I have done nothing. I am quiet and shy and don’t really play with them so there is no way I have done anything that would make them mad. But they don’t like me.

Wendy is one of them but she is standing here talking to me like we are friends, which we are not. And I am confused and don’t know what to say or how to act. She is talking about those girls. She is saying very bad things about those girls. Calling them names and telling me she is in a fight with them and she doesn’t like them anymore.

I am wondering if I might have a friend now. Because I am alone. We are on a weekend field trip for the entire school and I am standing here alone because I have no friends. I have been pretending to be fascinated by all the historical sites all day. We are visiting a “cottage” that was built by a man who found a lot of gold during the gold rush. It is enormous; bigger than any house I have ever seen and I think it is funny that it was his “cottage.” I have been wandering around paying close attention to everything so it looks like I am happy having time alone to learn about these historical facts that are so interesting.

We are standing in a huge empty swimming pool in what was this man’s back yard and Wendy is asking me what I think of those girls. And I am scared because I don’t know what I think of them but I know that I don’t know why they are mad at me and I think it is mean to be mad at someone for no reason and to ignore someone and not let someone play with you for no reason.

So I say that I don’t know why they are mad at me and that makes me mad and it makes me not like them. She asks me if I think this or that about them and I say yes, I guess so.

Then she says she will be right back because she has to go tell them how mad she is at them. And I watch her walk over to those girls and start yelling at them and waving her hands around like she is angry at them. And it occurs to me that she looks fake doing it. That she is pretend fighting with them. Because she is. They are playing a game. 

She is coming over to me and telling me she is fighting with those girls and she is not. She is just trying to get me to say bad stuff about them so that she can go back and tell them what I have said.

Right now she is pretending to yell at them but what she is probably saying to them is all the things I have just said to her about those girls.

I don’t understand this. There is a level of not liking someone where you decide, I don’t like her. And this can be for any reason or none. It is just how things are. Maybe she is annoying or you don’t like to play the same things.

Then there is another level above that where a group of girls gets together and decides they don’t like one girl. This level should require that some thing happened. Maybe she stole one of the girls’ best friends. Or maybe she said bad things about one of the girls behind her back. Or got one of the girls in trouble. But I think there should be something bad that happened for a whole group of girls to decide that they will not play with another girl and they won’t be nice to her.

And then there is a level where the girls get together and make a plan that involves lying and acting and planning and all sorts of weird stuff so that they can catch the girl doing something bad. To do something like this, it seems like you would really have to hate the girl. Like she killed your cat or stole something from you or beat you up.

She walks back and starts talking about those girls again and how horrible they are. I nod and don’t say much because I know what she is doing and I am just standing back and waiting to see what happens.

I pretend to be amused and satisfied with myself for having caught on to this game so quickly. I feel better about myself because I am smart and they have not tricked me.

We are together most of the day and she keeps making up weirder and weirder reasons to go talk to those girls and at a certain point I am starting to become annoyed that they think I am so stupid that I don’t know what they are doing. I wish it would all be over so I didn’t have to pretend anymore and be around this person who is trying to get me to say bad things.

She goes away again and now I am being called by my teacher. He is standing with her under a grove of giant trees and they are looking concerned. He tells me that Wendy has told him about all of the mean things I have said about those girls.

I am looking at him and I feel a darkness spreading through my body. It is anger but it is defeat. I tell him that I knew what Wendy was doing all day. I tell him that it was obvious to me and I tell him how she acted all day and that she and those girls had planned this whole thing to get me in trouble. That I had done nothing to them and that I said very little about those girls and had just agreed with Wendy because I was playing along with their game. And shouldn’t they all get in trouble for doing something so mean to me even though I have never done anything to them.

He looks confused and concerned and he says nothing. He asks us to think about what has happened.

I overheard my mom say that she thought those girls were brats. And so I am telling myself that they are mean and I have done nothing wrong. But what is it about me that makes them hate me so much? I wonder if there is something about the way I am that is just really annoying or bad. Or else why would they put so much effort into being mean to me.

Amazing Alexia and the Red Chair Fiasco

I just want to say that I believe that if you tell someone that they are going to get something they really really want, then you should really really make sure that you follow through with that—especially, if that “something” is really really important to the person.

I love candy. I know that a lot of people love candy and that is an obvious thing to say but I really love candy. I think about candy a lot. I will sit and imagine living in a world made of candy and I get sad when I realize that the world is not made of candy and will never be made of candy.

My parents don’t allow sugar in the house. No cookies, no ice cream, no cereal that has sugar in the first 5 ingredients. Do you know how many cereals don’t have sugar in the first 5 ingredients!? Almost none. Grapenuts and those puffs that taste like styrofoam. That’s it.

I like the styrofoam puffs ok and I don’t even mind Grapenuts that much but it’s like eating little rocks. By the time the milk softens it up, it becomes a gigantic bowl of soggy mush. My dad gets mad at me every Saturday morning because I don’t finish my bowl. When I tell him it’s a soggy mush, he says “Why don’t you pour yourself a smaller bowl and then have a second bowl if you want more!?” I don’t know why I don’t do that. I am always sure that I am so hungry I will eat it all.

We don’t have dessert at my house. When I tell my dad I want something sweet, he tells me to eat some fruit. Fruit is not candy. It is fruit. There is nothing on earth that tastes like candy other than candy. Not dates, not apples, not red bell peppers, not prunes. Candy is the only thing that tastes like candy, period.

I remember one time we were all having cake as a special treat and my mom and her friends start talking about how they can’t eat any more because it is “too rich.” “Oh, this cake is so rich! I can’t eat another bite!” I almost cried I was so mad. What does that even mean? How can cake be “too anything” not to eat. I could understand if someone accidentally used salt instead of sugar. Or, I don’t like coconut, so if it were covered in coconut, I could see not being able to eat it or having to pick around the coconut. But this was chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. And I can promise you, it was the most amazing thing I have ever tasted.

So the other day, because Jesse and my mother were out of town, my dad tells me that if I get my chores done and read a certain amount before dinner, we can walk up the street to the store after dinner and pick out a piece of candy for dessert. Imagine if there was one thing that you loved more than any other thing in the whole world and you were never allowed to have it and someone told you that tonight after dinner you could have it. That is how I felt when my dad told me this.

All day I planned and dreamt and thought about what piece of candy I was going to choose at the store. The It’s It ice cream bar is the biggest thing I could get, but dad might not go for it and it is really hard to eat. It’s too big for my mouth and you have to bite into it rather than lick it, like most ice cream, which means I freeze my front teeth. Sometimes I get the Bit’o’Honey bar or a Charleston Chew because they take the longest to eat. I like both of those candy bars, but they’re not my favorite. I really love anything chocolate but all the chocolate stuff seems small. I think it might be a rip off.

Then. All of a sudden. Out of nowhere. At dinner time, for no reason at all, my dad says we are not going to get candy for dessert. He says I haven’t done my chores or my reading and the deal is off. I scream at him and tell him that I can finish it all after dinner and that I am working on it and I PROMISE I will finish it after dinner. It is not like I won’t do it. I will do it. I will do it after dinner. There is plenty of time. But he REFUSES! 

He is yelling at me, I am yelling at him. And then he storms off and I am left sitting in the kitchen all alone. This is the meanest and most unfair thing that anyone has ever done to me ever. I cannot see any reason on earth why I can’t just finish what I need to do after dinner. I don’t understand why it has to happen before dinner. There is plenty of time after dinner.

So I turn in my seat and bite down hard on the red vinyl chair that is one of a matching set that goes to the red Formica 1950s table that my mom loves. I don’t know why she likes this table and chairs so much. It seems like a cheap plastic table set to me. She says that it's the perfect house-wife kitchen set that all good house wives had in the 1950s and she thinks it's funny that we have it because she is a liberated working mom.

I didn’t rip the chair. I just bit it. Out of fury. And when I was done there was a bite mark left on the chair.

A few days later my mom screams at me and grounds me because I bit the chair. No, “Did you bite this chair?” or “Who bit this chair?” She didn’t ask my dad if he bit the chair or Jesse if he bit the chair. She just assumed that I bit the chair and got mad at me and grounded me.

What I don’t understand is why do they always assume that because something is wrong, I did it? It’s just not fair. If she had asked me, I would have admitted it. But she didn’t ask. She just saw the bite mark and got mad at me. What if I didn’t bite the chair!? What if Jesse bit the chair?

Something She Never Said Out Loud

Really? Do you really think she was amazing? Tell me about that. Tell me what it is about her exactly, that makes her amazing — at least, from your perspective. I really want to know. Was it because she spent every weekend at the hospital in the cancer ward reading books to sick people? Was it her tireless work rescuing and caring for sick and injured animals? Or maybe it was all those summers she spent in third world countries building schools and shelters for orphaned children. Or how she gave every gift she ever received to the needy. Probably it was because she graduated valedictorian of her class and got academic and sports scholarships to every top school in the country and was overwhelmingly adored by all of her classmates. Or because she graduated at the top of her class from Harvard Medical School and then devoted her life to caring for AIDS patients in Africa with her funny, charming, gorgeous doctor husband. No? Not any of those things? Oh that’s right! She didn’t do any of those things. She was just a kid. And let’s be honest, kids are not exactly what I would call ‘amazing.’ What is it, then, that made her so amazing? Hey… maybe the reason your bratty daughter and her bratty friends picked on my daughter is because they knew how amazing she was and couldn’t bear to live in her shadow. Could that be it? Is that how you know that she was amazing? Your daughter told you? Speaking of, I see your daughter didn’t have the guts to show her face here. My daughter was not fucking amazing. She didn’t have time to be amazing. She was 6. Don’t tell me she was amazing. You know nothing about her. You have no idea how amazing she was.

We Did Hold Our Breath

Finally I just couldn’t take it any more, you know what I mean? I mean, there was so much sadness and loss and loneliness. Desperate loneliness. Oh my gosh. I thought I was going to be swallowed up by it. Everyone for miles, all of use, we just sat. Holding our breath. I mean, not literally. Because if you held your breath for that long – like from when she found out, which was 4 or 5 that afternoon … something like that … until the next morning at say, 530 am, you would die. Or probably pass out and then start breathing once you passed out. But what I am saying is that, metaphorically speaking, we all held our breath. For miles, all of us. For this little soul we share this space with. We held our breath for her. The minute she found out I could feel it in the very center of my body. If you measured it, it would be the spot that was equidistance in every direction from the middle of me to my skin. It wasn’t pain. How to describe it? It was a longing type feeling. A powerful, sad, longing feeling. It kind of felt like if I had tried to open my bill to sing, it would have sounded like a howl. And so I held my breath. And then the guys next to me stopped and the guys next to them held their breath. And everyone landed and held still on their perch. Their feathers ruffled like we do when we get wet. And we sank our little heads down into our chest, like we do when we nap. And our little black eyes got small, like slits, like we were going to sleep. And we sat. Holding our breath. She howled and rocked and cried. And I could feel it in that place I mentioned before. Every note. Every song. It swirled up into the sky and more came down to perch and hold their breath. You know what it was like? It was like when it rains. When it really pours. We all just nestle in to wait it out. Blinking and ruffling and shaking. We did that. Because when you feel that kind of power, you just have to sit still and let it do what it needs to do. None of us slept. All bleary eyed. When the sun started to crack over the horizon, we just sat there, silent. Never has it been so quiet. Never has it felt so sad. She came out and sat in that very chair right down there. I am pretty sure that was the exact one. She sat and sipped on a hot cup of coffee. And we watched. Just sat there and watched her, no one breathing. Our little toes wrapped tightly around our perches. Little eyes blinking. Waiting. And finally, I knew it was time. I knew someone had to say something. So I opened my throat, ruffled my feathers up like I do when I am really trying to impress everyone and I sang. One of the loveliest calls I have ever sung. I usually call for a mate or call to let everyone know this is where I hang. But that morning I called for her. Like it was the only call that had ever mattered. It was like something came through me to help the sun come up that morning. I had never felt anything like it. It was awesome! And as I called and called, my feathers ruffled so big that I was as big as an eagle. And then I saw her change. She heard me. She totally heard what I was saying.

Grandma and God

In Hong Kong there are thunderstorms and it is 79 degrees. In Moscow, it is cloudy and 81. Addis Ababa is cloudy and 75. Sydney has patchy clouds, 54 degrees. Los Angeles, 75 and sunny. Milwaukee thunderstorms and 91. And in Jesse’s grandmother’s back yard, it is a bright sunny 81 degrees.

Jesse and his grandmother are wearing ample sunscreen and drinking plenty of water because water, she says, is the best and cheapest way to hydrate. They will spend most of the day “futzing” in the garden, she will tell her best friend Claudia later that evening when they talk on the phone, a weekly ritual for the 40 years since Claudia moved to Texas with her husband and their three kids.

The wind is keeping the bugs away, the sounds of Sunday provide the score and Jesse and Mary are talking. They are talking about plants, soil, seasons, poetry, music, cars and tennis, among other things.

Mary quotes poems, songs and great orators. Jesse laughs, argues and occasionally roles his eyes, as any self-respecting teenager should. But mostly Jesse listens to her as he has done for as long as anyone can remember. He listens to her in the way only a boy who truly loves someone can. Because as far as he knows, there has never been anyone as smart, as funny or as interesting as this small sturdy woman with cheeks as pink as the cookies she makes for every special occasion.

Jesse is arranging stones along the border of the flowerbeds, stones he and his grandmother collected over the last year on their hiking excursions. They have spent the last year planning a native flower garden and are now tending to it anxiously as they await the first bloom.

Mary is seated on a chair leaning over her knees, using her bare thumb and forefinger to pull the weeds growing in her flowerbed. She is smiling as she recalls the morning sermon in which Father Peters used a lovely Miles Davis quote that she wrote down on her program so she wouldn’t forget it, “Sometimes you have to play a long long time to play like yourself.”

“I don’t even know how you can believe in a God who killed your only son,” Jesse responds provocatively.

Not a muscle on her face moves, her smile frozen in place. But the spirit behind the smile empties into the dirt she continues to weed. She is not angry or even sad, because she knows that her son is dead every minute of the day and she knows that her grandson is angry about it. In that moment the image of her teenage son challenging her and questioning her is as clear as though they were standing in the kitchen right now arguing about whether marriage is a meaningless piece of paper. She would give anything to go back and enjoy that argument rather than take it so personally. To enjoy every single moment and love every instinct in her son that drove him to rail against his parents and everything they stood for.

She picks and pulls, smile still frozen, determined to love the conversation that is about to happen, “When your father was born, when he cried for the first time, it was like I had known him forever. Like I had heard that voice every day for my whole life. If they had taken him out of the room and put him in a room with a thousand crying babies, I would have been able to walk right up to him.”

“And now you will never hear that voice again.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Jesse, then are dreamt of in your philosophies,” Mary smiles to herself remembering how her father used to say this to her when she was home from college “educating” the family, none of whom had attended college. She promised herself she would never say this to her children and was amused that she had finally found a loophole with her grandchildren.

Jesse is beginning to get agitated, “Just because I don’t know everything in the universe doesn’t mean that there’s a God. Besides, I’d rather not believe in God than believe in one that would kill my dad and Alexia.”

Mary calmly continues weeding, “Who said anything about there being a God?”

“You just said that there are more things in heaven and earth blah blah blah…”

“Than are dreamt of in your philosophies. What I am saying, is don’t get too smart to learn. Knowing stuff is overrated.”

“So you are afraid that if I think too much I won’t believe in God?”

“Not God, Jesse. What is possible. You won’t be able to see what is possible. For years, decades, who knows how long, they said we couldn’t fly. That is was mathematically impossible. So we didn’t. Fortunately for us, the Wright brothers were not too educated to try anyway. And now we can’t keep our feet on the earth.”

“I just don’t see how you can go to church every Sunday and pray to a God that killed your only son.”

“Because I don’t believe in a God that killed my son just like I don’t believe in a God that gave me my son,” Mary takes a deep breath in and brings herself to standing. She moves her chair to the next section of the flowerbed, sits down and continues as Jesse watches her, “Do you think God killed them?”

Jesse looks across the yard to the dog barking in the distance. Mary watches him out of the corner of her eye. As he stares into the distance it reminds her of the look her father used to get whenever she asked him a question that hinted at a discussion that would require more than an encyclopedic knowledge of soil and farm animal lore.

Finally he wipes his upper lip with his dirty hands creating a dirt mustache and says, “I don’t think I believe in God, grandma.”

“Can I ask you, then, why you are concerned about me praying to a God that killed my son?”

“Well, I guess if I did believe in God, then it would be this all powerful being that could have saved them that day and chose not to. And I don’t see how you could forgive a God that did that, let along go to church every Sunday and praise him.”

“Life happens, Jesse. People are born. People die. Don’t misunderstand me. My soul aches every day for him. For Alexia. But I don’t believe in a God that killed them. I believe in a God that comforts me when they die. I believe in a God that connects me to them long before they are born and long after we are all gone.”

“Well God hasn’t comforted me,” Jesse looks down at the pile of rocks of all colors and sizes he is ignoring and pretends to be done with the whole discussion.

“What does that mean to you? Comforted. What do you imagine when you think of being comforted?”

Running his hands over the tops of the rocks looking for the next piece in the puzzle he is creating, he responds, “I don’t know. I guess like, everything is ok. That there is nothing to be afraid of or nothing to worry about. To be relaxed.’

“And to have a God that can kill someone you love at any moment is not very relaxing, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“But the absence of God still doesn’t take away the fact that someone you love can die at any moment, right?”

“No. I guess not. But at least I don’t have to pray or thank some God that isn’t going to help me when I need it.”

“I can understand that. I would feel the same way if that was how I saw God.”

“How do you see God?”

“It changes. I go through different phases with it. When my mom died I was pretty mad at God. I remember I was home from school shortly after she died and I was picking on everyone so my dad finally yelled at me to. I ran to my bedroom and sobbed. He was such a gentle man and to have him be so sharp with me, it was devastating.”

“What did you do? Why was he so mad?”

“I was being a brat. My mother had just died and I was mad and I was taking it out on my sisters and brothers. He came and sat on the edge of my bed. Just sat there and let me cry. When I calmed down I asked the question we all ask at some point. “Why me?” “Why her?” “Why did he have to take her from me?” And he responded with the most shocking question, “Who should it have been?”

“What did he mean, who should it have been?”

“Like, “Is there a young woman out there who deserves to lose her mother more than I did?” Honestly, there were a few people I wasn’t too fond of but I couldn’t think of anyone that I thought deserved to lose their mother instead of me.”

“I guess I can’t say that I think that someone else deserved this more than me but why did it have to happen at all.”

Mary stands up and walks in circles to stretch her back and legs. With each step her rubber sandals make a sound that reminds her of the squeaking sound her father’s work boots made when he walked around the house. The week after her mother died it was unusually quiet in the house and she would listen to his shoes as she pretended to eat breakfast. The sound of his shoes made him seem so frail and unprepared to face the world without his wife. She couldn’t decide if she was more devastated for herself or for him.

“When you were out there helping Mrs. Olson trim her weird little thorny bushes yesterday and she was following you around talking to you, what was she saying?” Mary asks.

“She was showing me the best way to trim them so that the most amount of flowers would grow.”

“She followed you the whole time. Was she talking to you about that the whole time?”

“Yeah. They are really complicated bushes. I guess they are really “sensitive” she says and you can only get them to bloom if you do certain things at certain times. So she had to watch me the whole time to make sure I didn’t do something wrong.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah. She is cool. She knows a lot of things about a lot of things. And I feel sorry for her. Being alone and being so smart and having no one to talk to. I know she likes to talk.”

Mary makes a short “hm” sound as she sits down and resumes weeding. It is the same sound that drove her son crazy when he was a teenager because he knew that the wheels were turning and a long instructive lecture would soon follow. Something that was supposed to transform they way he thought about the world but always felt more like she just wanted to convince him he was wrong.

“Did God comfort you when your mom died,” Jesse tries to bring the conversation back.

“Truthfully. I wasn’t really interested in being comforted at first. I just wanted her back. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“After a while though, I started to make peace with the fact that people die. All over the world people die. Sometimes in horrible ways. I don’t need a God to understand life and death. And at a certain point I decided I really wanted a God that would help me make peace with it all.”

“I don’t see how I am supposed to make peace with this. How some God can comfort me.”

“Every time I look into your eyes, I see your dad. I can feel him in the room. And when you laugh. Oh my goodness, you and Alexia are indistinguishable. It sends shivers of joy up my spine every time. You have a brain as big as Toledo and so kind. A kinder sweeter boy, I have never known. I watched you out there yesterday with Mrs. Olson as she critiqued your every move. Not a word. Not a muscle on your face indicated that you thought she was anything but full of grace and wisdom. Sure, you’ve had some rough times. You have struggled to find friends. Of course you have! Why wouldn’t you? But look at you. You are fine. If what you are looking for in being comforted is the absence of pain, you are right. You won’t find that on your knees.”

“Well then what do you mean? How has God comforted you?”

“The morning after your father died, I woke up – well I got out of bed because I didn’t actually sleep – made a pot of coffee and came out and sat in this garden. I had cried all I could for the moment. I sat perfectly still and the whole world was silent. Like it was holding its breath for me. I hadn’t even realized how quiet it was until I heard a bird. One bird singing…” she trails off looking up to the trees where there are birds singing.

“And? … What happened?” Jesse coaxes her toward the momentous revelation.

“Nothing. I just heard the bird.”

“So … what?” Jesse begs for the answer.

“So, I knew I wasn’t alone. The story wasn’t over. I am human. Of course I am devastated. But the birds still sing and I am ok. My son is still my son. There is still a whole lot of loving I need to get done before I leave. There are still thousands of faces I need to kiss, victories I need to celebrate and losses I need to cry over. And God is going to hold me upright through it all.”

“I don’t want to go on without them, grandma,” Jesse looks down at the rocks and organizes them as he tries not to cry.

“I know you don’t, Jesse,” she pleads softly to the top of his head. “But you are. You are moving on, aren’t you? And you will keep moving on. The force is strong in this one.”

“Oh God. Are you seriously quoting Star Wars?” he drops his head between his arms in mock exasperation.

She smiles and starts weeding again, “Jesse, you are the coolest kid I know. And I am not just saying that because you are my grandson. I have a few grandchildren and as much as I love them (and I do love them all as much as I love you) you are by far the coolest kid I know. I am not worried about you. My heart is broken for you that you have to do this without Randy. Lord have mercy, you two would have had so much fun. But I am not worried about you. I can see him all over your life. You do and will always have strength beyond what you should. Just promise me you won’t get too smart.”

“Grandma!” he pleads looking up at her. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“I know you don’t and I couldn’t be happier about that,” she looks up at him and gives him a wink.

“Why won’t you tell me what it means?”

“This is one of those annoying moments where an adult tells you something that they won’t explain because it is something you have to learn for yourself,” she concentrates on the weeds.

“Awesome.”

“I promise when you have a 14-year old grandchild, you will know exactly what I mean.”

“Even better.”

She weeds and Jesse begins clearing dirt for the rocks. For several minutes they work in silence.

“Jesse?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t care if you believe in God or not. But I do want you to know that you are the most graceful person I know. I just couldn’t be more proud of the man you are becoming.”

Jesse looks at the dirt and pushes it around in figure eights and breathes slowly and quietly for several minutes, “Ok.”

A Conversation with Dr. Willis

Jesse: [sarcastic] OK! The hardest thing about losing your dad is that no matter how hard you try, you keep remembering all the times when you were mad at him or irritated or didn’t want to spend time with him and you wish you could go back and take it all back.

Dr. Willis: So when I ask you to tell me what the hardest thing is about losing your dad, in your response, instead of saying, “the hardest thing about losing MY dad is that no matter how hard I try…” you said, “the hardest thing about losing YOUR dad is that no matter how hard YOU try…” Who are you talking about when you say, “you?”

Jesse: You know what I mean! You know I mean, “I.”

DW: You are right. I was pretty sure I knew you meant “I.” The problem is, being “pretty sure” is not really good enough for me. Where and when possible I want to be sure. And I also want to know that you know who you are talking about. You have had a pretty difficult thing happen to you and I think I owe it to you that if I am not certain, I follow up with some questions so that I can offer you the help you need.

Jesse: OK, ok!  I, I, I … me, me, me! Are you happy now!?

DW: Are you happy?

Jesse: Not right now, I am not! I don’t see why all this matters!

DW: Well, I would argue that it matters because when you say “My father” and “I feel” I know that you are talking about your personal and unique experience. When you say “your father” and “you feel” you might be talking about similar feelings or experiences that people have when they lose someone they love but not necessarily yours.

Jesse: I don’t see why it matters that I TALK about it.

DW: Ok. That is a very good point. Why does talking about this matter. Let me ask you this. Why would you not want to talk about it?

Jesse: I don’t really have anything to say about it. It’s sad, it’s horrible. What is the point of talking about it?

DW:  That's a very good reason. You don’t really have anything to say about it. Is there a situation where you would want to talk to someone, a therapist, for example?

Jesse: I guess if I had a problem that I couldn’t figure out or something like that, I might want to talk to someone smart who might be able to help me figure out how to solve it.

DW: Excellent! Absolutely. So then the reason that it doesn’t seem like a good idea to talk about your dad is because it is not a problem that you need help solving.

Jesse: Yeah. He’s dead. There is nothing I can do to change it so I don’t need to talk to someone to figure out how to fix anything.

DW: The situation is what it is and nothing can change it. There is no problem so you don’t need help solving anything. That makes perfect sense. I agree with you completely.

Jesse: You do?

DW: Yes. In fact I am going to make a pact with you right now that whatever happens with us, how ever long we work together—because who knows, maybe we'll figure out this is not at all what you need—that I will never talk to you about how we can try to fix the fact that your dad and sister have died or make you talk about anything that is not a problem that needs to be fixed.

Jesse: Great! Well, I don’t have any problems so I guess I can go…

DW: Ok. But before you go, we should probably address the reason your mom sent you here, right? I mean, if we don’t, you probably will have a problem on your hands, don’t you think?

Jesse: [sigh/eye roll] Ok.

DW: Ok. I know. So let’s just get it out of the way. She seems to think that you do have some problems. Maybe she is wrong. But let’s at least look at it so we know and you don’t leave here and then suddenly realize that you do have some problems that I could have helped you with.

Jesse: What are my problems?

DW: I don’t know. Why don’t we start with what your mom thinks your problems are.

Jesse: She’s worried that I am not hanging out with anyone and am spending all of my time alone.

DW: Ok. Is that a problem for you?

Jesse: No

DW: Great. So we have discovered the first problem. That you and your mom have a different idea about what a problem is when it comes to how you spend your time.

Jesse: Right.

DW: This is a great place to start. How do you handle this disagreement with your mom?

Jesse: I ignore her.

DW: And what happens when you ignore your mom and her requests or concerns?

Jesse: She freaks out. Yells. Cries. Stuff like that.

DW: So there is not a lot of peace and calm in your house?

Jesse: No way! We barely talk.

DW: Are you ok with that?

Jesse: No:

DW: Looks like we are starting to uncover the real problem, then.

Jesse: [overly exaggerated enthusiasm] I guess we have!

DW: She wants you to be more social. You ignore her. The house is in turmoil. Would you consider being more social to bring peace to the house?

Jesse: I don’t want to be social! I told her that. I don’t know why she keeps harping on it.

DW:  Why don’t you want to? Forgive me for asking. It is ok to feel more or less social so I am not saying there is anything wrong with that. But for most kids your age this is a very social time and I can’t help but wonder why you don’t want to be social at all. Did something happen?

Jesse: I am not “most kids.”

DW: True. No one is, really. But what specifically makes you not “most kids”?

Jesse: Um. Well. My dad and sister died a horribly violent death by drowning, for starters.

DW: Is that why you don’t want to be social?

Jesse: No.

DW: Then why? Can you tell me?

Jesse: I don’t know. I guess I don’t really like other kids my age. Or any age. I don’t really like kids.

DW: Do you know why? Is there something about them specifically that bothers you? Like, for example, I have this pet peeve when people chew with their mouth open. So I have at times chosen not to pursue friendships with people because they chew with their mouth open … it wasn’t the only reason, of course, but it sealed the deal.

Jesse: I don’t know that there’s one reason or thing. I just think kids my age are stupid. They’re all boring and they follow each other around like they have never had an interesting thought or idea in their whole lives. Everyone dresses the same, talks the same, likes the same boring music. It’s so lame.

DW: I can see that. That sounds pretty boring to me, too. But so, it’s the “nature” of the kids that bothers you, or irritates you, not the kids. If they were more interesting or unique, you might like to hang out with them.

Jesse: Yeah.

DW: You are not “anti-social” you are “anti-social-with-these-kids.”

Jesse. Yeah.

DW: That’s great news, then!

Jesse: Yeah? Why?

DW: Well … your problem, as we have identified it, is that your mother wants you to hang out with kids and you don’t want to, right?

Jesse: Right.

DW: You can now go to your mom and tell her that you don’t disagree with her. That you want to be more social. You just don’t like your choices right now. That you will be on the lookout for kids you like and want to spend time with and when you find them, you will be more social.

Jesse: Ha! And you think she will go for that!?

DW: No. Probably not. But at least you won’t be arguing about it any more and I think she won’t be as worried as she is right now if you let her know that you don’t prefer to spend the rest of your life alone in your room. Don’t you?

Jesse: Yeah. I guess.

DW:  So you don’t like how boring these kids are, we’ve established this. What do you want in a friend or friends? What does “not being boring” look like to you?

Jesse: I don’t know. That’s kind of a hard question. I don’t think I have a kind person in mind that I want to be friends with. But I guess I just want them to know that there is more to life than clothes and dances and who likes who. I don’t even know if I would want to be all serious all the time. I just don’t want to pretend that these stupid things are the most important things in the world. Sometimes I feel like no one understands me and that I am this complete weirdo. And so I feel like I have to pretend.

DW: What do you feel like you have to pretend to be?

Jesse: Like I am cool and interested sports and girls and stuff.

DW: How do you want to be? What would being real look like to you?

Jesse: I don’t know. Just relaxed. Comfortable. Not trying to be cool. Just being cool.

DW: Have you ever been with someone you felt like you could be yourself?

Jesse: At my house I’m like that.

DW: At school? Out here?

Jesse: I can’t remember. I don’t think so. I mean not since they died. I think people think I am weird. So I try to be normal. But then that makes me seem even weirder. I think people always think of me as the kid whose dad and sister died. Like that is all I think about. Like I am thinking about that all day everyday.

DW: Are you thinking about them all the time?

Jesse: Not always. Not really. I mean, I don’t know. It is hard to say.

DW: Why?

Jesse: Well … because… when you lose … when I lost MY dad and sister… it was sad and even though I am sad a lot more it is not always because I am thinking “my dad and sister died.”  I get sad sometimes just because in general I am sad.

DW: I see. So you are sad right now in your life and it is very difficult for kids your age to know how to deal with that and so you just avoid the whole situation.

Jesse: Yeah.

DW: And that is ok. You know that, right?

Jesse: No. I don’t know. Know what?

DW: Something really awful happened to you. Something that is not supposed to happen to a boy your age. Most kids your age have never had anyone close to them die. And so they don’t really know how to interact with you. The fact that you have experienced so much death, the death of your father and your sister, reminds them that something like this is possible in anyone’s life. What is OK is that you are understandably feeling uncomfortable or even unsafe around your peers right now and you are protecting yourself. That is ok. This is a lot for a 13 year old to deal with. I think it is ok for you not to put yourself in a position where you might get hurt or feel uncomfortable about what you are going through.