from family and
luxuries of civilization.
Together we can overcome and
together we will. Together we do.
I close the book
curl up on my side
and sleep the sweet
peaceful sleep
of fantasy.
Teenager
September 28.
I wake up early.
I know it’s my birthday because
I’ve been marking the days
on Mom’s calendar.
126 days since evacuation.
Jennifer and I had planned a big
shopping trip for the perfect
teenager outfit.
I nudge the sleeping dog.
George opens one eye
blinks at me, lets out a loud
sigh and closes it again.
I don’t need his help.
I pull out Mom’s evening gowns
and hold them up.
Dark blue with
rhinestones scattered
across one shoulder and
down the back.
I slip it over my head.
Slide into a pair of Mom’s
fancy strappy heels.
Too high and
too pinched.
Flip-flops are better.
My feet don’t show.
I shake my hair out
of its braid.
Pin it to the top of my head
in a glamorous updo.
I dig through Mom’s vanity.
Rhinestone choker.
Fancy cocktail ring.
Old-fashioned, sparkly
clip-on earrings.
I put on eye shadow
and blush.
Line my lips
the way Emma
taught me.
I’m a movie star.
I stand in front of
the full-length mirror
and strike a
Katharine Hepburn
pose.
George cocks his head.
He sees the improvement
over my usual
post-evacuation fashion.
No dystopian
lack of style
today.
Today
I’m a teenage
goddess.
Sometimes I act younger
than I am, but
I don’t care.
There’s nobody
here to see.
As the only human
resident of
Millerville, Colorado
I can do
whatever I please
on my
birthday.
Visitor
George sniffs around
doing his business
and I promenade
my finery through
the backyard.
Dry, brittle tufts
of grass catch the
tulle underskirt
and make it
difficult to glide.
Mom and Paul
would die
if they could see
the state of the yard
but what can I do
without water
for sprinklers?
Is Mom recognizing the date?
Trevor turned one already.
Are the twins ten yet?
George growls.
Ten feet away
in the middle of
the backyard
is a coyote.
George barks.
The coyote stares back.
George rushes it.
The coyote hesitates
for a split second
before bounding
over the fence
and disappearing
into the tall grass.
George barks and barks.
Sniffs all around where
the coyote was.
I run up on the deck.
Look in the direction
the coyote ran.
Can’t see
any sign of it.
George keeps sniffing
and barking.
Pacing back and forth
in front of the fence
where the coyote
jumped.
I call him to me.
Tell him what a good dog he is.
Hug him.
The coyote was thin
and thin means hungry.
What would he have done
without George here?
What will he do next time?
I joke about the coyote
bringing a birthday-gram.
A singing coyote-gram.
I try to laugh
but my hands shake
and my knees won’t
hold me up.
I sit on the top step.
George stands next to me
on high alert.
I nuzzle my face
into his warm side.
Such a good, good boy.
Magical Thinking
Upstairs.
Take off gown.
Pull bits of dead grass and
pine needles out of hem.
Hang gown on padded velvet hanger.
Return to closet.
Replace jewelry.
Rebraid hair.
Pour water on cloth.
Wash face.
Now bathing consists of heating
lake water on the camp stove.
Using a soapy washcloth to scrub
off what grime I can.
Hair is a different disaster.
Most of the time I just keep it up.
Out of the way.
Mom and Dad must realize it’s my birthday.
They must be thinking of me.
They could be thinking of me this very second.
What if
right now
at this exact moment
we are all thinking
of one another
at the
exact
same
time?
We could trigger some kind of magical energy in the universe.
The power of our three hearts
missing one another at the same time
would be enough to break
this hellish spell.
I make a wish.
Kneel on floor.
Press folded hands to forehead.
Squeeze eyes shut.
I remember world religions from school.
Imagine Jesus and Buddha and Muhammad
sitting somewhere listening together
to people’s prayers from around the world.
I clasp my hands harder.
Concentrate.
Please please please
please please please.
Let my parents find me.
Let my parents come home.
Let my parents find me.
Let my parents come home.
Let my parents find me.
Please please please
please please please.
A warm tongue licks my cheek.
Eyes open onto George’s big black and brown face.
He raises one tawny eyebrow. Cocks his head.
I close my eyes one last time.
Please please please
please please please.
Amen.
Rite of Passage
A queer calm comes over me.
It’s clear that
for whatever reason
my parents
are not able to
come back.
I am on my own.
To survive until help arrives,
I must rely entirely on myself.
This birthday is not about
evening gowns
dressing up
playacting.
It’s time to stop fooling around
with childish games and
superficial nonsense.
Start
acting like an adult
whose life is at stake.
Childhood is over.
Scissors.
Braid.
(inhale)
Cut.
Chop
until short spikes
bristle all over
my head.
I coil the long braid in my hand.
It feels alive.
I wrap the braid in
my mother’s silk scarf.
Tuck it into the vanity.
Under the mirror.
Out of sight.
I look down at the dog.
Time to get serious.
Change of Strategy
I’ve stayed close to home
all this time, certain someone
was coming to find me.
Not wanting to miss them
when they came.
Now staying alive is top priority
even if it means going beyond
the neighborhood.
There’s no telling when my parents might return.
There’s no telling when my parents might return.
There’s no telling when my parents might return.
If I say it a lot maybe I’ll start to understand it.
The days are cooling off.
Getting shorter.
I need to think about the immediate future.
On hikes, Dad always harped on how fast
the weather changed in Colorado.
How we needed to be prepared.
With no electricity and no furnace
I need to plan for what could be a cold, lonely winter.
It always snows before Halloween.
There’s no time to waste.
Hunter-Gatherer
On patrol with George.
Our eyes are open for the coyote.
Nothing.
Abandoned cars sit
in the supermarket parking lot
like islands in the middle
of an asphalt ocean.
People pushing carts of groceries
will emerge from the gaping
doors at any moment.
Inside, skylights provide dim illumination.
Smells of rotting food, urine, feces.
Impossible to breathe.
George’s nose twitches.
Fur on the back of his neck stands at attention.
Hair rises on my own arms.
A toppled display of cookies and cakes.
Plastic boxes chewed open, contents eaten.
Overturned candy racks.
Half-eaten wrappers.
The dogs have been here.
Eyes straight ahead.
Hands on cart.
Navigate around dog mess.
Try not to breathe.
Five jumbo jugs of bottled water.
Three cases of canned dog food.
Dog treats.
Chew toys.
Canned fruits.
Canned vegetables.
Canned chili.
Canned spaghetti.
I don’t bother leaving a note.
I have stopped thinking in terms of imposing
on other people’s property.
I think only of survival.
Ant (not Grasshopper)
It takes
forever
to get home
pushing
the big heavy
shopping cart
and
stopping
to rest
along
the way
but
by visiting
the store
every day
for a week
I am able
to restock
the pantry
with
plenty of food
for me
and George
as well as
drag in enough
water
juice
and
energy drinks
to last through
several
blizzards.
I unpack the last load of supplies
and park the empty shopping cart
around the east side of Mom’s garage.
I exhale.
Exhausted
from
winning
a race
I didn’t
even
know
I was
running.
Heat
I’ve made a critical mistake.
No wood-burning fireplaces on Lake Drive.
The houses are designed
with modern, gas-operated ones
that turn on and off
with the flick of an electric switch.
Useless.
They don’t even have chimneys.
No fire, no heat.
No heat, no way
we will survive
a Colorado winter.
We Have to Move
Dad’s house has
an old-fashioned woodstove
in the living room.
We often use it
in winter to help
heat the downstairs.
But Dad’s place
is in Old Town,
twice as far
as the trek
from Mom’s neighborhood
to the supermarket.
The shortest route involves
walking around the lake
on gravel trails that
will not be easy
pushing a shopping cart
full of supplies
over and over again.
Without heat, we’ll freeze.
Without food, we’ll starve.
It’s already getting colder every night.
Time is running out.
We have to move.
Plan B
Thirty yards down the lake path
toward Dad’s house
the full shopping cart
bogs down in the gravel
and won’t roll.
Rocking makes it worse.
Rocks jam the wheels.
Riding back and forth
with the bike trailer
would be faster, even though
it can only haul a fraction
of what’s in the cart.
Back to Lake Drive.
Mom’s minivan looks at me
from the driveway.
Do I dare?
What if
I can’t
even manage
to back it
out onto
the street,
let alone
make it
all the way
to Dad’s house
and back?
WhatifIgetintrouble
fordrivingunderage?
I had better dare or there
will be more serious consequences
than illegally crashing
an abandoned car
in an abandoned town.
I shut George in the house
and take the keys.
Driver’s Ed
I unlock the driver’s door
grab my bike helmet
and climb in.
Safety first.
I buckle my seat belt across my lap
and click my helmet strap under my chin.
I turn the key.
Surprise and hallelujah!
The engine starts.
The gas gauge points to
a third of a tank.
I grip the steering wheel.
Try to slide the gear shifter into reverse.
It won’t move.
I try again.
It stays put.
Surely it isn’t supposed to take this much force.
There must be a trick.
Think.
Why would it stay in park?
What’s the advantage of that?
Safety first!
I press my foot
on the brake pedal and try again.
The gear shifts easily into reverse.
I whoop a victory whoop.
I ease my foot off the brake
and the car begins rolling backward
down the driveway.
I turn the wheel and overcompensate
so the rear end of the car backs up
on the front lawn.
Pushing down hard on the brakes
throws me backward in my seat
and the car stops abruptly.
I sit for a minute, choking on
my heart in my throat.
At least it’s facing the right direction now.
I keep my foot pressed on the brake
slide the gearshift into drive
and inch down the street.
I circle the block four times before
I feel confident enough to risk
George’s life too.
I pull back into the driveway
and start loading up the van.
Define Home, Anyway
I used to change houses
every Monday
(homecoming
cominghome)
routinely reunited
with one parent
routinely separated
from the other
a member of the
Divorce Nomad Club
making the weekly switch
according to the
custodial agreement.
This is different.
Mom’s new, modern
neighborhood
three-car garage
(cold)
Dad’s one-hundred-year-old
farmhouse
heirloom rosebushes
(warm)
Empty houses aren’t home.
Woodstove
I’ve seen Dad light fires many times
but I didn’t pay close attention.
I’ve never done it myself.
The last thing I need is
to burn the house down.
I’ve got to do research.
Before Evacuation
I had my computer.
So now…? Think.
Before Google.
Before Wikipedia.
Before Internet.
“Come on, George.
We’re going to the library.”
Millerville Public Library
Front entrance is locked.
I try every other door
but no luck.
In the back by the loading dock
I find a basement entrance
next to a tall, thin window.
I choose a heavy rock
from the landscaping
and heave it.
The sound of shattering glass
shocks the silent town
and I jump
forgetting for a moment
there’s no one to chastise me.
No reason to feel guilty.
I reach through pieces
of jagged glass and
unlock the door.
Inside
we make our way
through dim light up to
the main floor and
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