I shouted back: “If Dad let me
have a phone, you could’ve called me.
Maybe you should tell him to get me one.”
T folded her arms, and her elbows
looked like the tiny arms of a T. rex:
“Yeah right, as if that’s gonna happen.
You’re lucky to have a tablet;
that’s more than I had at your age.
Trust me, you don’t want me
to tell Dad about you wandering off,
or he’ll take your tablet away in a flash.”
“Go easy on him, T,” said Laila,
taking out a packet of tissues
from her pocket and handing one to me.
I didn’t realize I was crying.
“I’m sorry,” said T, kneeling.
“Were you lost? Were you scared?”
“I guess so…
I don’t know.
I think I’m sad about the dodo.”
That’s what I said.
Then T scrunched up her face,
the way Javi always does
when he’s trying to work out
a tough math problem.
“What made you sad?” T asked me.
I had to think hard about my reply.
Maybe my face scrunched up as well.
“She’s in there, but not really.
There aren’t any more dodos
anywhere on Earth.”
That’s what I said.
“You didn’t cry over the dinosaurs
or the—” said T, before she stopped
and hugged me tightly.
She started sniffling,
and I wondered if her makeup
would leave marks on my T-shirt.
I saw over T’s shoulder,
Laila had a tissue, too.
I didn’t mean to make everyone cry.
When our faces were dry,
we went to the café inside the museum.
Laila and T had their usual:
two fresh mint teas.
I had my favorite: hot chocolate
with whipped cream and marshmallows.
It was like a hug from the inside.
TODAY
I’m doing too much remembering,
and not enough concentrating.
I’m cycling so slowly.
T is waiting at the junction.
I cycle as fast as I can.
When I reach T, she’s shaking her head.
She gets off her bike
and leans it against the traffic light pole.
“Oh no, Dylan,” sighs T,
“your backpack is open.”
I jump off my bike, let it
drop to the ground, and check
to see if the postcard is still there.
It’s not!
Did I forget it at home?
No. I triple-checked.
Did it drop out
when I went over a bump in the road?
That must be what happened.
“My postcard,” I say to T.
“We have to go back and find it.”
“We don’t have time, Dylan.”
“Please!” I beg. “I have to
show it to Javi and Mr. Nasir.”
“There are pictures of dodos online.
You don’t need the postcard for that.”
“I have to tell them the facts,” I say,
“I have to tell them: According to the UN,
up to one million of the estimated eight million
plant and animal species on Earth
are at risk of extinction,
including polar bears,
giraffes, tigers, and Asian elephants.”
“Well, you’ve got it memorized,
so you don’t need the postcard.”
This time, I know I’m crying:
“I do need it! We have to go back.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no time.
I’ve got to get you to school
and I’ve got to get to work,” says T.
“It’s not fair,” I shout. “You rushed me!”
I’m breathing heavily.
“I hate you!” I yell.
I don’t know why I said that.
I don’t hate my sister.
T knows this because
she says: “You don’t hate me, Dilly.
I’m your best friend.”
I correct T: “My second best friend.
Javi’s my best friend.”
T laughs. “Fair enough.
You’re my second best friend, as well.
Laila’s my best friend.”
But I think: How can her girlfriend be
her best friend as well?
So I ask: “How can your girlfriend be
your best friend as well?”
T smiles. “I guess I’m just really lucky.”
“Were Mom and Dad best friends?” I ask.
“Definitely,” says T as she throws her arms
around me. She hugs me, tightly.
Like she did at the museum.
Like she did at the church.
I don’t mind
if T gets makeup on my clothes today.
T says, “How about on Saturday
we visit Mom’s grave?”
I nod.
I think of the advice Abuela
always gives to Javi:
“El que a buen árbol se arrima,
buena sombra le acobija.”
In English this means:
“The one who gets close to a good tree,
good shade shelters him.”
I have many good trees:
T, Laila, Dad, Granny, Aunty,
Mr. Nasir, Javi, and Abuela.
Abuela is the oldest.
Not old enough to have seen a dodo,
but old enough to be very wise.
I wonder how wise dinosaurs
would be if they were still alive.
T makes the math problem face again.
“If you don’t want to go
to school today, it’s okay.
I’ll take you back home
and take the day off work.”
I put my backpack on.
I imagine it’s my armor,
like I’m a Nodosaurus
or a Stegosaurus.
“I want to go to school,”
I say, and I mean it.
“I’ve got the facts memorized,
so I can still tell Javi
and Mr. Nasir.”
“That’s a great idea,” says T
as she sets my bike upright.
TONIGHT
Mom might not be in a museum,
but she should be remembered.
So I’ll make a list on my tablet
of important facts about her.
I already have some in mind:
You always smelled of lavender.
You carried a rose quartz stone.
T says you were the most accepting
mom a daughter could ask for.
Laila says you were like a mom to her, too.
That’s something I never knew.
Aunty says you were a protective big sister.
Granny said you were like a rock to her.
I think you’re like a dodo
because there isn’t another
you
anywhere on Earth.
But Dad says the best parts
of you are in T and me:
your feistiness and your empathy.
If what Dad says is true,
I love being like you.
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Dylan wrote a poem about Mom
without knowing he was doing so.
He made a list of facts,
some he already knew,
and some he researched
by asking other people
who also knew and loved Mom.
If Dylan were to write a poem
about his sister, Tabitha,
he might mention oat milk
and a plant-based diet,
her pink mirror with the gold bumblebee on it,
her big gold hoop earrings,
her being a Beyoncé fan,
her having a girlfriend
who is also her best friend.
Why don’t you write a poem
about someone special using important facts
you know about them?
These might include their favorite color,
their smell, an object you associate with them,
and anything else you think is important
from your memory or research.
EPIC VENTURE
BY JAY COLES
Wes sits down at the dining room table in his grandparents’ “mansion.” It’s not really a mansion, but it’s waaaay bigger than the tiny apartment he lives in with his mom. He smiles as he listens to Grandpa Charlie talk about how he shoveled through icy mud and tree roots to dig a hole for shelter to protect himself against enemy fire.
Wes loves a lot of things—comic books, superhero movies, drawing in his sketchbook, and playing Among Us with his friends from school—but the thing he loves more than anything in the world are Grandpa Charlie’s stories.
Grandpa Charlie is like Superman to Wes. He was a military pilot, fought in wars, lived on every continent, had twelve kids with Grandma Betty—Wes’s dad being the youngest of them—speaks multiple languages fluently, and he has tattoos all over his arms. When they’re together, Wes always begs Grandpa Charlie to tell him more stories: about what his life was like as a kid, what fighting with guns felt like, and even what Wes’s dad was like when he was alive, since Wes never got to meet him.
“Would you like some tea, puddin’?” Grandma Betty asks from the kitchen as Wes outlines an airplane soaring in the clouds inside his sketchbook. She’s hunched over on her purple cane that matches her dress, her glasses resting on the bridge of her wrinkled nose.
“Sure, Grandma. What kind do you have?” Wes loves tea, but he especially loves tea the way Grandma Betty makes it. She does something to it, like putting her soul into it with a side of honey, the same way she does with everything else she cooks.
“Peppermint or chamomile?” Her voice is sweet, but her accent is hot like the South in summertime.
“I’ll take peppermint, please,” Wes says. Tails brushes up against Wes’s leg underneath the table. Tails is their plump, bright orange rescue cat.
Grandpa Charlie starts his story again, using his hands to mime all the digging he had to do. Wes listens closely and continues sketching what he hears. He draws tanks and military men and the rising sun burning the day away. And when Grandma Betty comes back to give him his tea, his smile doesn’t leave his face. He even drinks it with a smile, because this? This is his favorite thing in the world.
“Where were you again?” Wes asks his grandpa.
“Germany,” he answers. “Berlin, Germany. Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah! I think so. I could find it on a map,” says Wes. “Did you have friends there with you?”
“Of course. I had lots of friends there. It was all of my friends against the bad guys.”
“Oh, man. Did you and your friends win?”
“Sometimes we won. Other times, we didn’t win. But it wasn’t always about winning,” Grandpa says, leaning forward a bit. Grandma Betty comes into the doorframe from the kitchen and just stands there, watching and listening.
“What do you mean, Pa?” Wes wears curiosity like a too-tight jacket.
“I mean that it was more about keeping people safe than anything else. You can’t truly call something a win if people get hurt,” Grandpa answers, his voice a little raspy.
“Oh, yeah. Okay. That makes sense,” Wes says and sips his tea at the same time Grandpa Charlie does.
Wes stares at the wrinkles all over Grandpa’s dark brown face. Wrinkles around his mouth and on his forehead and around his eyes, and tiny patches of gray hair on his head. Then he asks another question that catches Grandpa Charlie by surprise.
“Grandpa…did any of your friends ever get hurt?”
Grandpa Charlie gulps his hot tea and stares at his hands before rolling up one of his sleeves. He points to one of his tattoos.
“You see this?”
Wes nods, eyebrows furrowing.
“It says ‘Soldier 12680901.’ His name was George. George Salinger. He was my best friend during combat. He had my back, and I had his back. We did everything together. Helped each other with anything. His plane was shot down back in…” Grandpa Charlie starts to tear up a little and takes a moment to blink them back.
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Grandpa.”
“Hey now, that was a long, long time ago. I’m okay. I hadn’t talked about George in a long time.”
“Was he, like, your best friend?” Wes says.
“Yeah, he was. But you know what? You’re now my best friend,” Grandpa says, and winks at Wes. Wes offers him a tight-lipped grin.
“What was it like to fly an airplane? Did you feel like Iron Man?”
“Ha-ha. Sometimes,” Grandpa answers him. “But more often it was like driving a car in the air through dangerous areas.”
“That’s so cool,” Wes breathes out. “You ever do any tricks with the plane?”
“All the time. Flips, cartwheels in the air, spins, falls, everything. You name it. I’ve done it.”
Wes has to catch his jaw before it falls off. “Wow!”
Wes knows that Grandpa keeps a small airplane in their back garage. “Does your plane still work?” he asks.
“Yeah, it does. I’m actually thinking about selling it sometime soon. I’m only getting older, and it’s just sitting in there collecting dust.”
“Oh.” Wes can’t help the pang of disappointment in his chest.
Grandpa Charlie gives him a look. “You know what? I actually want to give it one more go-around before I get rid of it. It’s raining at the moment, but I might fly it tomorrow when the weather’s nicer.”
Wes lights up.
“Would you want to join your old grandpa for his last flight, kiddo?”
Wes can’t even get the words to come out properly. “Umm…ye-yeah!”
Grandpa winks at him, and they high-five across the table.
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” Grandma Betty says, and Wes and Grandpa nod their thankfulness to her. They’re having Grandma Betty’s famous chicken and dumplings.
Later that night, Wes lies awake in the bed he usually stays in when visiting Grandma and Grandpa, all the lights off, just a flashlight, his pen, and sketchbook. He’s putting some of the final details on a sketch from Grandpa’s dinnertime story.
Back home, at his apartment, it’s sometimes hard for Wes to fall asleep. If it’s not police sirens, then it’s people arguing right outside his bedroom window. If it’s not him staying up thinking about his dad he never got to know, then it’s his hyperactive imagination. But here at Grandma and Grandpa’s? All of that seems to go away. Something about Grandpa’s stories is like
taking medicine that actually works—that actually helps him to fall asleep, slowly and then all at once. He’s able to dream. Dreams that take him so far away from the life that he knows and into his sketches.
Wes video calls his friends Chadwick and Shawn. He tells them all about him getting to fly with his grandfather.
Moments later, Wes smiles big and shuts his eyes, unable to stop thinking about tomorrow’s exciting journey with Grandpa Charlie. Eventually, Wes falls asleep and dreams like he usually does, but his smile doesn’t fade until sunrise.
* * *
The next morning, Wes wakes up to the smell of hickory bacon and pancakes. Wes washes up, brushes his teeth, and slides into a pair of jeans, a Mandalorian T-shirt, and some Jordan retros he got for Christmas last year.
Tails meets him at the bottom of the stairs before she wobbles herself into the living room to sleep on a couch.
“Good morning, puddin’. Ready to eat?” Grandma Betty asks, wiping her hands on her pancake-batter-covered apron. She brings out a plate for Wes.
“Thanks, Grandma. It smells so good. Where’s Grandpa Charlie?”
“He’s been fueling up the plane most of the morning and getting it ready to go,” Grandma Betty explains. “He’s very excited to take you on a little trip. We’ve already asked your momma and she said you can go.”
“Me too,” Wes says, and eats a big forkful of pancakes and hickory bacon. Wes wolfs down his food in a flash. By the time Grandma Betty turns back around, his plate is basically empty.
When he’s finished, he grabs a jacket and heads outside to the garage. Grandpa Charlie is inspecting the plane, wearing goggles and his baggy military uniform.
Wes looks around, amazed.
Grandpa’s garage is filled with old guns, small knives, and other military weapons. Grandpa spent all the years he was in the military and all the years after collecting them, buying them from people all over the world, and going to pawn shops all over the country to find them. Wes has seen them before, but they’re secure in glass boxes, which means they’re off-limits.
“Ready to burn smoke, kiddo?”
Wes knows exactly what Grandpa Charlie means by that. It’s written all over his face. Wes nods and says, “Mm-hm!”
Grandpa Charlie hands him a pair of goggles and some earphones. “Put these on,” he says. “It’s gonna be loud once we get this bad boy fired up. You’ll be able to hear me talking to you through these headphones.”
Black Boy Joy Page 8