by Roth, Judith
It’s like another artifact
Mom left behind.
An arrowhead from Cupid.
How did Mom have the nerve
to give her professor
a book like this?
He couldn’t help but get the message
loud and clear.
She put it all out there.
I think of Garrett and wonder
if I’ll ever be able to do that.
Many of these are not happy poems.
A lot are about death.
I don’t know how Dad can bear
to read this one:
“I SHALL NOT CARE
“When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-
hearted,
I shall not care.
“I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough,
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.”
No wonder my dad
has such a hard time
smiling.
I put the book down
lift Serendipity off my legs
and go to my closet.
I want to see more family pictures
so I can follow where this story went.
How the two of them
became the three of us.
This time I upend the box
and spread the pictures out
like I’m playing with money.
And a patch of orange
catches my eye.
A cat sitting like a little person
on Mom’s lap.
I never knew she had a cat.
I look through other pictures in that area
and find a bunch more
of an orange cat
with a tail like a flame.
And pictures of the cat and me
from baby to toddler.
Orange cat touching its nose to mine.
Orange cat leaping into my lap
on the rocking chair.
Orange cat cuddled against my stomach
as we nap on the floor of the den.
No wonder I love cats.
In the last one I find, I’m a tiny baby.
I’m lying on our blue couch
with the cat on the back of it
looking down at me.
I wish I could remember looking up
and seeing that furry face.
I wish I knew why
a cat was okay before
and it’s not okay now.
I think Serendipity
slept on my head last night.
I can feel puncture marks
in my scalp
where she kneaded herself
to sleep.
Stayed up way too late
for a Wednesday night
reading most of Love Songs
and looking at pictures.
Half-asleep
I step on a piece of paper
and almost fall over
trying to unstick it from my foot.
Oh.
It’s the paper Dad gave me last night.
I fell asleep and forgot about this.
I should be getting ready for school
but I have to stop and read it.
SMALL DEMANDS
For two days now
the child has appeared
when I’ve reached the best part of a novel.
She places herself between me and the words
her chubby hand planted on the page
like a bagel with fingers. . . .
The bagel will not be removed.
I try lifting it gently, at first,
then I grasp her wrist
then I pry at her palm
but she quickly frees herself
and slaps her heavy hand back on the resolution.
It will have to wait.
She senses I have given in
and settles sweetly into my lap
pointing to numbers on the page
and reciting them.
She turns pages and asks for words
eyes bright with my attention
fingers light with learning.
Every cat I’ve owned has refused to budge
from a newspaper spread out on the floor
in front of an anxious reader.
But cats can be shut behind doors.
I have a child.
The story will wait.
She loved me.
I mean, I knew that
and I felt that
and I remembered that.
But here is more evidence
and at the same time
I’m teary with love
I’m angry with Dad.
Why didn’t he give this to me sooner?
Why is he so wrapped up
in his stupid grief
that he won’t let me
have my own?
I am storming out of my room
with cat pictures
and the poem
when my foot kicks
the Love Songs book.
I honestly need to stop
dropping things on the floor.
I pick up the book
and like black-light lit fingerprints
I can see Dad’s tenderness
all over it.
The book
melts me
toward Dad.
Less stormy now
I take the pile of artifacts
to the kitchen.
Dad has toasted me a waffle
and cut me a grapefruit
and is heading out the door
with his leather schoolbag
and a backward wave.
Wind out of my sails.
Before I leave for school
I go into Dad’s room
with evidence.
I want it to stand out
so I make his bed.
I wonder if I should put the lone pillow
in the middle at the top
even though he still sleeps
only on his own side.
Maybe this is why
he never makes his bed.
I place his pillow on his side
and center a picture
on the pillow.
The picture is of me—
baby on a blue couch
with a furry guardian angel.
He’ll wonder how I got the picture.
I wonder if he’ll be mad.
But he’ll know
that I know
cats were not always
forbidden.
It seems pointless
to hide the pictures now.
I leave the pile in the middle of my floor
and close my door
against Serendipity
so she can’t ruin them.
I have one picture
in my sweatshirt pocket
to have it near me.
It’s of me and the orange cat
looking out the front window
along with a reflection of my mom
taking the picture.
I wave good-bye to Serendipity
looking out the same window.
Mrs. Whittier is i
n her front yard
doing something with flowers.
I jog over to her.
Good morning, Sara!
I know something I tell her.
I pull out the picture
and show it to her.
But Dad’s still not talking.
Mrs. Whittier nods gently.
I turn and head for school.
Miss Conglin tries to relate
subject matter to our lives.
So she brings back the thimble kiss.
A metaphor, she says during writing time,
uses one word to stand for another.
She steps forward
grabs the thimble off of Ana’s desk
and holds it up.
Just like Wendy, some of you in class
have been using a thimble
to represent a kiss.
She holds up her hand
against the outburst of silliness.
You’ve been using a metaphor.
Well I haven’t used this metaphor,
because I am thimble-less.
I glance at Garrett
off to my left.
He is doing some kind of magic trick
where he can make his thimble
disappear and reappear.
No one’s listening to Miss Conglin
who’s moved on to similes.
Our minds are on metaphors.
Taylor has a peasant assignment like me
so we research together in class.
I slide the picture out of my pocket
and show it to Taylor.
Notice anything off in this picture?
She takes the close-up
and says Ha look at that.
A cat.
I thought cats weren’t allowed.
I thought so, too, I say.
My dad’s got some explaining to do.
Taylor hands me back the picture.
New plan?
I don’t know.
I’m just winging it
right now.
She taps her pencil on her notebook
ticking down the minutes.
Time’s running out she says.
Believe me—
I don’t need reminding.
Sitting too long is hard for Taylor.
When Miss Conglin is busy,
her back turned,
Taylor stands up
and holding the page
she’s been working on
in one hand
she does a mini peasant
dance and song.
I have no soap
My bed is hard
My bread is smeared
with greasy lard
I have no bath
I’m full of fleas
Someone, won’t you
help me, please
Something nags at my mind
as I’m laughing.
Hey, Taylor, do you know
any of the songs from Grease?
Taylor shoves me.
That’s not the kind of grease
I was singing about.
But yeah I know them all.
I tell her why I want to know
and she says
Come over after school.
I’ve got the DVD.
Taylor’s house is the opposite of mine.
There is honest-to-goodness life here.
First we visit
the chickens and ducks in the coop
and the bunnies in their cages.
Then Taylor lifts Mandy
by an arm and an ankle
and swings her around like an airplane.
Then Taylor’s mom gives us cookies
fresh from the oven.
Then we dance like hooligans
in the family room
to the great songs from Grease.
It’s awesome.
Until we get to the end of the last song
the one Mom and I sang for Dad.
I can’t believe the lyrics.
The happy crowd is singing
We’ll always be together
on and on and on.
Taylor notices I’ve stopped dancing
and I see the moment when she gets it
in a ripple across her face.
Um, you want to go outside
and hug a bunny?
Yes. I do.
And then I want to go home
to Serendipity.
I’m at my front door
when I hear Mrs. Whittier calling.
Sara, wait.
Serendipity has already seen me
from her spot in the window.
Her mouth opens in silent mews.
I put my hand on the glass and tell her
Just a minute, Dipity.
Mrs. Whittier is holding a CD.
My stepdaughter’s
finally coming to visit.
I found this while I was
cleaning out the guest room.
I probably look as clueless as I feel.
When you were little
and I sat for you at night
I’d play this CD
your mom made you for bedtime—
it’s her voice telling you fairy tales.
I feel a tickle of a memory.
Mrs. Whittier twists her mouth around.
I shouldn’t be the one telling you this
but you know about the cat now
and Matthew can’t seem
to talk about it.
I have no idea what that
has to do with fairy tales.
Then she tells me how the cat died
because they didn’t notice an infection
until it was too late
and how guilty Mom felt about it
and how she cried for three days.
That was the cause for no more cats.
And when I got old enough to start asking
for a cat of my own
that was the reason the cat pictures
were hidden.
That was the reason one fairy tale
could not be played
and why it was removed from the book.
They didn’t want me to think
cats were a possibility in this house.
Wait I say What good would that do
if I already knew about the cat?
Mrs. Whittier shakes her head.
You were two when that kitty died.
You’d forgotten about him by the time
you asked for a cat.
She hands me the CD.
The cat fairy tale is the first one.
I can’t believe I’m holding
Mom’s voice in my hand.
Go on, now Mrs. Whittier says with a smile.
You know you want to.
I make a dash for my CD player
grabbing up Serendipity on the way.
Dad is still safely at school.
I drop in the disk
and settle us on my bed
my kitty curled in the center
of my crisscrossed legs.
All I have to do
is push the button
to hear my mom’s voice.
I’m almost afraid to do it.
Listen, Serendipity.
This is my mom.
Mom’s voice tears my heart<
br />
when she starts.
Okay, honey bunny,
snuggle down.
Here’s your story.
Once upon a time a princess lived in an ivy-covered tower. The tower walls were hard, cold stone. From her window she could see a meadow where furry creatures played in the sun, and she longed to cuddle their warm, soft bodies. But the rule-keepers had forbidden animals. No creatures were allowed inside to comfort her.
The princess was lonely.
One night, she heard a cry from below. She tiptoed down the stone staircase to find out who made the sound. She peeked outside the door into the dark. At first, she saw nothing. There was no one on the doorstep. The bushes held their secrets. The princess called out into the night, “Someone, someone who is scared, I am here. Come to me.”
The bushes trembled and rustled and frightened the princess. But she remembered she was lonely and she became brave again.
She called, “Someone, someone who is scared, I am here. Come to me.”
And this time the bushes answered her with a quavering mew, and a furry creature tumbled out and poked a nose at her outstretched hand. He twined his tiny body around her ankles until she picked him up and held him in her arms.