“Once, my mom showed up at school pickup in a full chicken costume.” Aunt Joan tries to interrupt him, and he holds up a finger. “With two buckets of chicken wings.”
Joan huffs. “You didn’t tell her why.”
I give him a curious look, and he grimaces. “She threatened to do it if I didn’t try out for the basketball team.”
“Which I knew he wanted to do, but was just too chicken to try.” Joan slides oven mitts on her hands, then pulls out the lasagna.
“I tried to call her bluff. And lost.” Matt shudders. “She walked around school handing out chicken legs to all my friends.”
I don’t know how laughter can sit right beside the grief, but it does. I still feel like I’m drowning. But for a few minutes, in this cozy kitchen, I come up for air.
But the joy turns to a gasp and stops abruptly in unexpected tears. I wipe my sleeve under my eyes and stand up, clearing my throat. “I’ll set the table.”
Dinner is delicious and loud. After the initial few minutes of awkwardness when no one knows whether they should bring my mom back up again or not, they talk about school and summer plans. They try to pull me into the conversation, but I have nothing to say. Their lives feel so removed from mine. Tomorrow, Joan’s kids will have their last day of school for the year. They’ll complain about teachers and laugh with friends, wake up with pimples and fight with their parents.
Their normalcy feels comforting in a strange way. Like the relief of picking at a scab. Or maybe it’s like putting pressure on an open wound. The pressure makes the pain throb, but you know it’s staunching the bleeding. It hurts to be here. But I don’t want to leave.
When everyone disperses to their separate corners of the house to prepare for the next day, I crawl into bed in the guest room. My phone buzzes.
Cosmos:
Warm Summer Sun by Walt Whitman
Warm Summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
No other message. Just the gentle words of Whitman. I hold my phone close to my chest, curl onto my side, and cry until fatigue buries me like a grave.
Chapter Forty
Cosmos:
Yesterday I saw moss
clinging to trees
Wrapping spruce in soft
Pillowy green
And I wanted to hold you
Make my home
In your shade
