The teacher had us write poetry. Most kids hated writing poetry, but I loved it. And the teacher noticed my poem. She said it was very interesting. She was worried the bunny was hurt. I told her how once, when I was younger, we found a baby bunny in our yard. It was hurt. Daddy helped it. Still, it didn’t live. I was sad but couldn’t stop staring at its stiff yet floppy body. Daddy said that happens sometimes, that all things die. Like Mama? I had asked. He didn’t answer.
My teacher smiled at me today. She said poetry is a way to show feelings. She said the poem was good. She said I did a wonderful job. This time, I think I believed her.
We had to have rhyming words in it. I like rhyming. Rhyming is like cat and hat. Jump and bump. Caboose and noose.
I made the last one up. I don’t know where I heard the word noose. I’ll have to ask my teacher what it is. But caboose is a train. Daddy and I went on a train once, a couple of years ago I think. I don’t remember why. Writing the poem was easy. I showed it to Daddy. He liked it too. He put it on the fridge.
He asked why the bunny was hurt.
I said I didn’t know. It just came to me. I don’t think he remembers the bunny from a while ago. When did that happen?
Here is my poem Diary. I hope you like it. Maybe I will write more poems tonight instead of watching TV. Daddy said it would be okay to break the routine. I get nervous when the schedule is different, but he told me to work on my poetry if it made me happy. He said we all need an outlet to express ourselves.
So maybe I will write more. But here is that poem.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
Little bunny in the flowers.
He rests for hours.
White as a cloud.
He isn’t loud.
Soft like a shirt.
The bunny is hurt.
October 2, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Daddy has been really tired lately. We get home from work and school and eat dinner and do homework. And sometimes after I’m done writing, I go out to the living room and he’s asleep already.
I worry about him. He has been quieter than usual. Last night, he was too tired to read Goodnight Moon. It made me sad and mad at the same time. I read it to myself, but it wasn’t the same.
Sometimes Daddy gets in these moods, these weird little funks, as Grandma likes to say. He pulls away. It usually happens in October. I don’t know why. Grandma told me October is hard for Daddy and to be patient and good. I asked her why but she just shriveled up her weird looking face. The wrinkles got deeper and she shook her head and told me not to ask that question.
October is hard, but sometimes March is bad for Daddy, too. The picture, the one that was in his room that I stole, the one of Daddy and Mama . . . it has a date on it. March 12th. I wonder why that date is important. I want to ask him but I am afraid. He seems upset and I don’t want to bug him. I hate it when people ask me questions when I’m upset. So I’ve tried to be quiet and good and follow the rules as I always do.
I wonder if Daddy gets lonely. I sometimes do at school when the kids are mean and won’t talk to me. But at home, it’s okay. I like it just me and him. I don’t like talking to other people anyway because it’s really hard and they get confused and I get mad. But Daddy isn’t like me. He doesn’t mind talking to people. At least when we grocery shop or go to the Post Office or to the hardware store for supplies, he talks to people. He smiles at them and asks how they are. Everyone in town seem to like him. But Daddy never really has anyone over. Not except the ladies in the garage.
He used to have a guy from work who came over sometimes. His name was Pete. He would come over on Fridays and drink a beer with Daddy and they would watch TV. But then Pete stopped coming over. I don’t know what happened or why. I should ask Daddy.
So now it is just me and Daddy, all the time. When Grandma isn’t butting her big butt in.
I like that it’s mostly just us. I wonder if Daddy gets sad though. I wonder if that is why he gets moody in October. I wonder if he misses Mama. I wonder so many things.
Maybe Daddy is just really tired. He’s said that a lot this week. His job keeps him busy. Daddy builds things. He works in construction and he has built a lot of things in town. He helped build the church and some houses and even a big mall. He says he was always good at building things.
Sometimes, I like to look in the bed of Daddy’s truck and look at all the tools he keeps in there. Shovels and axes and all sorts of things. Daddy says you can never be too prepared. That you never know when you might need to build something.
I like that Daddy is good with tools. It makes me proud.
I think tomorrow maybe I’ll ask Daddy to help me build something. Maybe a birdhouse. I like to watch the birds sometimes. That would be good. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t be so sad if I take his mind off of things.
Stay Safe,
Ruby
October 7, 2009
6:57 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was a bad, bad day.
Daddy’s been having a hard time. He’s moody. He forgets things like our schedule and our dinner foods and to get milk at the store. He tucked me in bed early even though he knows how much I hate being off schedule. He rushed through Goodnight Moon. I noticed when he held the book, his hands were shaking.
“You okay, Daddy?” I asked.
He nodded, but he didn’t look at me. “I’m fine, Ruby. Just fine.”
But he wasn’t. I could tell.
He tucked me in, and I tried really hard to fall asleep. To not worry. I was feeling okay—until it started to storm. Really storm. Crashes boomed through the house and lightening blinked in the sky. I’m terrified of lightening. I hate it. Even more than that, though, I hate the loud booms of the thunder. It startles me every time and it makes my head spin and hurt.
I snuck out of my room and down the stairs to find Daddy. He always rubs my back when it’s storming. Why didn’t he come up to sit with me? When I tiptoed into his room, he wasn’t there. Empty. I looked out the window. His truck was gone. How did I miss it? The thunder was loud, the rain crashing into the house. It pinged like popcorn on the roof. When I realized it, I was panicked. It was terrifying, the storm booming and banging and hurting my head. I dashed back to my room and flicked on the lamp. Then I rocked back and forth on my bed. Back and forth. Back and forth.
The storm passed, the lightening stopped. But I was still scared. Where did Daddy go? Why did he leave? Tears fell. After a long time, I heard the truck pull up. I peeked out my window. Daddy was home. He was getting out of the truck parked by the garage. He was rushing, frantic. I thought about going down, my tears drying now. I wanted to see if he brought another lady to play with in the garage. But I was mad. I was still so angry that he left. As if he could sense me, he turned and saw the light on in my room. I froze. Now Daddy would be mad. But I was mad too.
Daddy ran in the house. I heard the door slam. Up the stairs he came, his feet pounding on each step. I sat on my bed rocking. Rocking.
“Ruby? Are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His voice was calm, but I could tell he was nervous.
I rocked. I didn’t answer. Tears fell. I wanted to explain, but the words got all tripped up and I just cried harder and louder.
“Ruby, dammit, answer me. Are you okay?”
I rocked and rocked, my head hitting against the wall and rattling the picture above it.