Reaching for Sun Read online

  reaching for sun

  Tracie Vaughn Zimmer

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  winter

  not even me

  Tomatoes

  break

  invisible

  the bus

  home

  Uniform

  double major

  drop out

  fingertip pieces of Dreams

  aunt laura

  gifts

  holiday buffet

  midnight service

  holiday

  presents

  the back acre

  clothes

  the table

  january

  spring

  kingdom of imaginary worlds

  poppies

  despite

  backyard archaeology

  dress of leaves

  searching

  leapfrog

  an acre of imagination

  me, the dandelion

  small envelopes

  stuck to my tongue

  autograph

  whirligigs

  bus stop

  jewels

  flicker

  snake

  snoring

  the question

  three feet square

  kiss of life

  wildflower mix

  like me

  summer

  never

  note

  cold strands of spaghetti

  graduation

  daydreamer

  the red plate

  ripples of sunlight

  maybe just a little

  cricket lullabies

  suit yourself

  cutting

  omission

  liar

  messages

  i can’t name

  daring the rain

  swallow a frog

  god-sized broom

  discovery

  a good crop

  invitation

  good-bye

  like this

  fresh-turned soil

  the old lies

  bald, bent old man

  two sets of doors

  today’s special: guilt

  blurt

  granny’s purse

  refusal

  only the birds

  i miss

  tending

  empty

  choked by kudzu

  awake

  full of lies

  changes

  visiting hours

  small gifts

  a body can’t afford

  paroled

  like sun

  everything looks greener

  soap and syrup

  fall

  back to the bus

  like cactus

  ping

  double bubblegum blooms

  fourteen candles

  snort

  first

  dreams

  eiffel tower

  hammock

  better than my own

  reaching

  Acknowledgments

  Imprint

  For my mother,

  Pauline Courtney Schwitalski,

  and in memory of my grandmothers,

  Jane Wyatt Stines,

  Ollie DePew Vaughn, and

  Lenora “Jackie” Whittington Courtney

  winter

  Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface

  In thee thy summer.

  —William Shakespeare (SONNET VI)

  not even me

  The late bell rings,

  but

  I’m hiding

  in the last stall

  of the girls’ bathroom

  until I hear

  voices

  disappear behind closing

  classroom doors.

  Only then

  do I slip out

  into the deserted hallway

  and rush to room 204,

  a door

  no one

  wants to be seen opening.

  Not even

  me.

  tomatoes

  With my odd walk

  and slow speech

  everyone knows

  I’ve got special ed,

  but if I wait

  until the hall clears,

  taunts like tomatoes

  don’t splatter

  the back of my head.

  break

  It’s the last day

  before winter break,

  when the hallway is littered with

  Christmas ribbons and wrappings,

  when presents are passed

  between romances and friends.

  As I walk through the door

  Mrs. Sternberg hands me

  a lunch bag

  decorated with stickers and stamps

  that’s full of candy,

  but it won’t change

  the lonely taste

  of seventh grade.

  invisible

  If being assigned to room 204

  wasn’t bad enough,

  now the new occupational therapist

  (Mrs. Swaim)

  appears to escort me

  to her torture chamber.

  She nags me

  (just like Mom)

  about wearing my splint.

  She reminds me

  (just like Mom)

  to do the painful stretches

  and exercises.

  But my thumb will always be pasted to my palm,

  and my left wrist and shoulder

  connected

  by an invisible rubber band

  called cerebral palsy.

  the bus

  I sit third row on the bus,

  try to scrunch myself

  tight

  against the frosted window,

  feet on fire

  from the heater beneath.

  Hiding—again—

  from this week’s troublemakers

  assigned

  to the first row:

  Natalie Jackson, for cussing;

  Pete Yancey, for spitwads;

  Caleb Harrison, for flipping off

  a delivery guy.

  And from their friends who sit

  in the back of the bus—

  caged animals waiting to be unleashed

  in the Falling Waters neighborhood.

  I’m last to get released

  from this rolling tortured tin can,

  as they head off in pairs and packs—

  joking,

  laughing,

  gossiping,

  planning,

  new scenes

  for their perfect lives.

  home

  In the kitchen

  Gran’s stationed at her double oven,

  four pots

  bubbling and steaming,

  sweat beading on her upper lip.

  Her friend Edna (the complainer)

  stands near the sink

  mixing a giant bowl of batter.

  “Hi, Ms. Edna.”

  “Hello, honey.”

  “How was school, Josie-bug?” Gran asks,

  wiping her face with her oven-mitted hand.

  “Okay,” I lie—

  in front of her friend.

  Edna hands off a wooden spoon

  for me to stir

  the caramel on the double boiler—

  the main ingredient for Gran’s famous

  popcorn balls.

  Already coconut bars,

  divinity (little white flowers

  that melt on your tongue),

  and vanilla fudge march across countertops

  on wax paper.

  We’ll
deliver them all to Lazy Acres,

  the nursing home

  where Gran visits her “old” friends.

  The one place

  other than here

  only smiles greet me.

  uniform

  Each day

  Gran wears

  khaki elastic pants,

  a crisp white collared shirt

  that never gets spotted

  no matter how much

  she cooks

  or works in the garden.

  Her brown vinyl purse

  is always within reach,

  and she’ll unearth almost anything

  from its secret compartments.

  Her long hair

  stays fastened in a bun

  with chopsticks

  until bedtime,

  when it waterfalls

  down near to her waist.

  She grew up

  in this very house,

  the only daughter after four sons

  and the single one

  to survive

  and inherit the farm—

  though now

  there’s only five acres

  left of it

  to call her own.

  double major

  Ten minutes after Edna leaves

  Mom flies through the front door

  from her job waiting tables

  at the Lunchbox Café

  next to the Ford plant.

  She pecks Gran on the cheek,

  me on the head,

  but never stops moving

  or talking the whole time.

  Grabs her lunch bag

  (and two pieces of fudge),

  changes out of her yellow polyester uniform,

  and heads straight out the back door

  in a run—

  and that’s all I’ll see her today.

  She’s got finals this week,

  and then one semester left

  at the community college

  with a double major

  in business administration

  and landscape design.

  So she’s just a blip

  on the screen

  of my life

  these days.

  drop out

  I don’t know much

  about my father except

  he was a freshman in college

  just like Mom

  when I was conceived—

  though he didn’t drop out on his dreams.

  I wonder

  if he ditched me and Mom

  when he found out about my disability,

  or if it gave him the excuse he needed—

  typed letter left behind in the mailbox,

  no stamp.

  I wonder

  if I got my straight

  blond hair, blue eyes,

  and cowardice from him,

  and whether he’s real smart,

  rich, and now got himself

  a picture-perfect family.

  I wonder whether

  he likes pepper on his

  corn on the cob like me,

  or poetry

  before slipping off to sleep.

  When I asked Mom

  she always answered:

  “I don’t know,”

  between her teeth

  until I stopped asking.

  Gran said she knew

  next to nothing about him

  and thought of him even less.

  If we met one day

  accidentally,

  say, in an airport,

  I wonder

  if he’d be carrying

  my baby picture

  behind his license.

  I wonder

  if I could forgive him—

  let myself be folded

  into his warm embrace,

  or if

  I’d spit on that picture

  and scratch out my

  face so he couldn’t pretend

  to care about me anymore.

  fingertip pieces of dreams

  Gran stretches to store

  her rose-covered shoe box

  back up in the hall closet.

  You’d think she taught

  first grade,

  not just Sunday school,

  the way she loves

  cutting and pasting her way

  through winter.

  She snips out pictures of

  fences, flowers, plants, and pots

  from seed catalogs and

  gardening magazines—

  a puzzle of her dream spring garden

  with no perfect fit.

  Just as she tips the box into place,

  it falls.

  Out flutter

  petals of color

  and Granny lands

  on her wide bottom.

  I rush to her side,

  help her find her balance.

  It takes half an hour

  to carefully pick up these

  fingertip pieces of dreams

  and click the heavy closet door

  on them again.

  aunt laura

  My mom’s best friend,

  Aunt Laura

  (though she’s not really my aunt),

  visits each December

  with her son, Nathan,

  who’s also in seventh grade.

  Mom and Aunt Laura

  shop for days on end

  while Nathan and I

  watch movies

  or play checkers—

  silently.

  Mom and Aunt Laura

  stay up almost until dawn

  never running out of words.

  Nathan and I

  ice cookies

  while Granny sings off-key

  to her vinyl

  holiday albums.

  After spending days

  leading to Christmas

  together each year,

  you’d think

  Nathan and I

  would be friends—

  but we’re

  not.

  gifts

  It’s a tradition

  that we only get three gifts

  each year—

  “Was enough for Jesus,” Gran says—

  and two of them must be homemade.

  Gran taught me to crochet

  with my good hand,

  and we figured out a way

  to make the yarn

  loop around the frozen

  fingers on my left.

  It’s taken three months

  to make them each

  a wooly scarf

  and mittens

  in their favorite colors—

  purple for mom

  and fuchsia for Gran.

  Next year it might take me

  six months,

  but I’m going to learn how to knit!

  holiday buffet

  On Christmas Eve

  we buy up the gala apples

  with thumbprint bruises,

  oranges, scaly and puckered,

  even bananas spotted like

  Granny’s hands.

  Cutting the fruit into wedges,

  and then piercing them with large paper clips.

  Stringing popcorn,

  raisins, and cereal

  until the tips of our fingers ache.

  Huge pinecones

  get smeared with peanut butter

  sent from Aunt Laura’s

  down in North Carolina,

  then sprinkled with sunflower seeds

  and bird feed until they’re coated.

  We dress our white pine tree

  just outside

  the family room window

  with these offerings.

  Then kill the lights

  and watch

  the holiday feast.

  midnight service

  At midnight

  we bundle into the

  darkened church.

  Kids from school

  who usua
lly pretend I’m invisible

  wish me Merry Christmas

  and say hello

  in front of their parents.

  But the hymns

  I can’t even sing

  warm and light me

  like the small white candle

  flickering

  in my good hand.

  holiday

  On Christmas

  we stay in pajamas—

  all day—

  nibble the ham

  Gran baked

  between homemade biscuits

  Mom can create from scratch

  in fourteen minutes flat.

  We watch

  old movies

  (though all our hands fiddle on projects

  the whole time)

  or work on a new five-thousand-piece puzzle

  that won’t get swept off the dining room table

  until we finish it

  just before Thanksgiving.

  These few days:

  the best ones

  of the year.

  presents

  Mom’s so surprised

  over her scarf and gloves—

  didn’t even know

  I could crochet

  since she hasn’t been home

  most of the fall.

  Gran’s scarf is a little uneven,

  but she doesn’t seem

  to mind.

  Mom painted each pot

  for Gran’s ever-increasing collection of violets—

  and gave her a gift certificate for seeds

  from an heirloom vegetable catalog.

  Gran created a quilted book bag for Mom

  and a robe soft as a puppy.

  I love

  the blue jeans jacket Mom bought

  and beaded.

  Gran embroidered

  a journal with my initials

  and unveiled a new quilt for my bed

  in the colors of summer—

  watermelon, tomato, blue skies,

  and lemonade.

  the back acre

  Christmas afternoon we pull boots

  over our pajamas, bundle up,

  and hike the snowless landscape

  to the back acre,

  where most of the family is buried

  inside the wrought-iron fence

  under an ancient hemlock tree.

  Four generations of Wyatts

  owned this land

  before Gran—

  near to a thousand acres.

  When Papaw died,

  Gran ran it for several years

  best she knew how

  renting out acres to farmers,

  canning any vegetable she could.

  But when Mom wanted college

  more than a farm,

  and my medical bills

  stacked up on the dining room table,