Just numbers
and words
on a page.
As quickly as winter came
sneaking in
with a slow morning frost,
then all at once,
snow—
I wake up, and it’s gone,
vanished.
Mom doesn’t understand
I don’t care about her chores.
I can’t wash away the email
in my in-box
that spells out a story
she doesn’t want me to hear.
I can’t wash away
the remnants of last night’s
salmon eggs benedict
Dad made for dinner
while listening to NPR podcasts.
I can’t wash away the guilt
of imagining a world
where the man who raised me
didn’t exist.
Where the man who didn’t
was my world,
and instead of plays
he gave me concerts.
Dad doesn’t know
that within the walls of my in-box
is an email
from a man
he’s never heard of.
A man who is
also
my father.
Why should I care about dishes
when winter is gone
and so is my ignorance?
To go back to days
when the snow kept away
the dirt and gravel beneath.
I want winter back.
Sana-Friend ♥
Sana: I know things are weird for you right now.
But what are you doing this weekend?
Me: Wallowing.
Trying to decide how to ask my mom if I’m the product of an affair.
Sana: Wait. Wut?
I thought you were adopted?
Me: Me too.
It’s complicated.
Sana: Oh Delia.
I don’t know what to say.
Me: Me either.
So what are you doing this weekend?
Did you want to work on the written portion of your project?
Sana: Hell no!
So I feel kind of weird saying this now.
Me: What?
Sana: I heard back from UAA.
Which is in Anchorage, I know, but at least I have that safety net.
I’m officially going to college!
Me: Why would you feel weird saying that?!
That’s awesome!
Sana: I know!
Interested in a distraction to get your mind off that dumpster fire?
Me: Yes. Dumpster fire is a perfect way to describe what has become my life.
Sana: I’m going to a party to celebrate my being a college student and all.
Fletcher Wilson is having a bonfire.
It’s gonna be liiiiiiit.
Me: . . .
Sana: A girl can try.
So how’re you going to ask your mom about all this?
Me: No idea. I tried to talk to Bea about it.
Kinda.
Sana: I can only imagine how well that went over with Queen Bea.
What did you say?
Me: I didn’t get to say much before she was telling me . . .
What was it?
I’m “just going through a senior year crisis of self.”
Sana: Sounds like her.
Me: And as soon as she said, “We are all individuals trying to get our needs met,” I stopped talking to her.
Sana: College does not look good on her.
Me: Life doesn’t look good on her.
Sana: Yeah.
She’s always had a sour vibe.
I say you rip off the band-aid.
Sit your mom down.
Hold her hand.
Say “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Me: “Hey, I know you boned a guy named Jack Bisset roughly eighteen years ago.”
Sana: I think that sums it up.
Me: Why is thinking about these conversations so much easier than actually having them? Crap.
I gotta go.
Dinner.
It’s the way Dad lingers behind Mom.
Playful, she’s making herself a plate
while he’s dancing a finger along her side.
And she giggles
in that way girls do
when they flirt with boys.
I wonder if Mom flirted with Dad
back when she slept with Jack.
Or if she couldn’t sleep at night because
she was scared of getting caught.
Did she cry when the snow went away
because she knew there was nothing
to cover the earth anymore?
Or did she smile at Dad
and touch his arm
and kiss him more
so he wouldn’t wonder?
If I try hard enough,
and hold my breath,
maybe I can forget I’m
at dinner with my family.
Maybe I can go outside.
Away from here,
and them.
Stare long enough at the sky
and beg the clouds to form
baby snowflakes
so maybe winter
can last
a little
bit
longer.
Mom knocks on my door
the way she did when I was little.
“Hey, the dishes . . .”
I tell her I don’t want to do them
and she stares.
Silent.
Like she’s waiting for me to
laugh,
say I’m kidding,
or apologize
because I didn’t vacuum either.
I don’t.
Because I’m tired of holding
her secret.
I want to be free
like an eagle
and spread
my arms
when I share my poems.
“Well, remember to pick up Iris
after school tomorrow,”
before she eases the door closed.
I wanted her to fight.
To say, “Young lady,
what has gotten into you?”
Then I could tell her everything.
Show her the emails.
Scream.
But she doesn’t.
And I’m afraid
it’s because she also knows
or at least suspects
our winter is over.
Kodiak Jones
Me: Another hard question.
Kodiak: Go for it.
Me: Last year,
after everything.
Did you ever wish you could go back in time?
Erase.
Start over?
Kodiak: Probably not.
At the very least
I learned from my mistakes.
Me: No part of you wonders what could have been done differently?
Are you serious?
Kodiak: I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.
Like even when we were “happy” and in love.
We weren’t right for each other.
Liv was too wild,
and I had a hard time keeping up.
And by the time everything went down—
it was like I felt I had to make it work.
We were having a kid together.
We had a plan and everything.
Me: I can’t even imagine.
Kodiak: Yep. We were picking out names.
Talking about how we were going to tell our parents.
Even looking into getting an apartment.
Me: That sounds terrifying.
Kodiak: Don’t get me wrong. What happened felt awful.
I never want to relive that pain.
But at least I’m not where I was a year ago.
Does that make sense?
Me: Not the way I think I want it to.
Kodiak: Backward is never forward. Going back is just going back to a bad thing.
And now things are okay.
I’m all lined up for UAA in the fall.
Maybe going away for school after I get my GPA up.
It’s a whole different future now.