Tears
My daddy cried every day the year his father died.
He tells me this each time I scrape a knee
or stub my toe or watch a really sad movie
and try to hold back my tears.
I cried the whole year, my dad says.
Three hundred and sixty-five days.
But I wasn’t born yet, so I didn’t see it.
And two years later when his mom
lost her leg because of a disease called diabetes,
my dad said, he cried because he didn’t have the money
to make life comfortable for her. You know, he said,
a fancy wheelchair, ramps, a new house
where she didn’t have to pull herself up on her crutches
to reach for everything.
And two more years later, when he signed his first contract,
my daddy said he cried because
now he could buy that wheelchair
and that house and help his mother and his sister
move into it together
and see them cry happy tears.
But some days now, my dad sits at the window,
silent tears slowly moving down his face.
I don’t even know when his tears started.
I don’t even know when they’re going to end.
Real Fiction
On Saturday mornings
I read novels about stuff like guys running
or playing ball or just being with their friends.
“Realistic fiction.” I don’t know why
it’s not just called “real fiction” or why
I don’t want to read anything else anymore.
I like that it’s real people,
real stuff happening to them
in real time. In my books, nobody
jumps off a mountain, then bounces
back up to the top. Nobody can fly or
cast a lifesaving web
across the city. I wish.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Today I’m reading a novel about these kids
who live in Harlem
and get in some trouble over a science project.
Something about their faraway life and
different kind of problems makes the stuff
happening around here seem like—
I don’t know. Feels like anything can
be kinda okay in the end. Maybe
that’s why I like realistic fiction. Real
problems that real people could have
and the stories not always ending
with some happily ever after. But still
most people seem to end up
okay.
Race Day
Yo, ZJ! It’s race day!
I’m lying in bed watching the snow come down
but jump up quick
when I hear my daddy.
Yo, ZJ! It’s race day!
Throw on my track pants, sneaks and hoodie before I even
brush my teeth.
Used to be me in a jogging stroller, my daddy
pushing me all over Maplewood.
Then me on my scooter, trying to keep up with him.
But now we mostly run together.
And one day a year, we race!
It’s Sunday and this is the year I’ll beat him. I know it.
This is the year, I yell down the stairs to him. You ain’t ready!
Don’t say ain’t, my daddy yells back.
And I already am ready.
You the one up there still getting dressed.
I run down the stairs and he’s standing in the doorway,
bending over to touch his toes,
then stretching his arms up and over.
I stand behind him and do the same thing, bending
left with him
and right with him and
over and up with him.
The two of us, the way we’ve always done.
And then we run!
Down Valley to Baker Street, Baker to Ridgewood Road,
then Cypress with him only a little bit ahead of me and the air leaving my lungs, coming back in cold,
the snow turning to beads
on our faces, mixing in with the sweat.
I can hear my daddy’s own breath coming
hard as we turn at the golf course,
make our way back, and that’s when
I kick a sprint at him, take off
with the air stinging my cheeks,
my smile as wide as anything until I hear him
coming up behind me,
his size fourteen shoes crunching in the snow,
his laughter the soft sound
I’ve always known.
You thought you had me, he says between breaths, and then he’s gone,
kicking dusty snow up and yelling back over his shoulder
One day, ZJ.
But today is not that day!
I keep running, though, because the day feels regular
and regular feels cold and good.
I keep running fast and hard,
just a little bit behind him, already
thinking I’m gonna win this race
next year.
Tackle
One time, me and Ollie were in my yard playing tackle while his mom, Bernadette,
talked with my mom inside.
Ollie tackled me so hard, my head hit the ground
and my nose bled.
I ran inside with the blood all down the front
of my shirt, Ollie
running beside me saying I’m sorry, ZJ.
I didn’t mean to bust your nose like that. I’m sorry.
After that, both my mom and Bernadette said
if they ever saw us playing tackle without helmets again . . .
That’s all they said, but we knew the rest.
My dad probably holds the Football Hall of Fame record
for the most concussions. Even with a helmet on.