Reaching for Sun Read online

  Gran resigned herself to sell it to her friend.

  At first the farmer

  who bought it didn’t change a thing,

  but when Mr. Killick got sick too,

  his kids put him in Lazy Acres and sold

  all of it to the developer that built

  the mansions up behind us.

  Gran places silk poinsettias on top

  of each Wyatt stone.

  “My momma would understand what I had to do,”

  Gran says,

  “but I’ll have to answer

  to Daddy one day.”

  Then she turns her face

  into the wind

  and walks away.

  clothes

  There’s more new clothes

  on the first day back

  from Christmas break

  than the first day of school;

  no one wanting to look

  eager in September.

  I may stick out

  in every other way

  in the hallways of middle school,

  but my outfits

  can compete

  even with the rich kids

  from the neighborhood behind us.

  Mom might pester me

  about homework

  and my exercises and therapies,

  but on fashion

  we always agree.

  the table

  I hate

  the mosaic-topped kitchen table

  Mom created,

  not because it wobbles,

  or the food that’s served on it

  (the best part, by far),

  but because it’s her favorite

  place to pounce.

  Mom plops across from me

  at breakfast,

  and even though it’s Saturday

  and school just got started again,

  she forces me to review

  a giant stack of flash cards

  for the end-of-year tests.

  Then a list

  of exercises she’s gotten

  from the speech therapist,

  occupational therapist,

  and physical therapist.

  I think tomorrow

  I’ll skip breakfast.

  january

  The only good thing

  about January?

  Halfway to June.

  spring

  Even the pine trees

  Appear new

  In spring.

  —Izumi Shikibu

  kingdom of imaginary worlds

  An oily stink

  blows in again from the bulldozers—

  those metal monster dinosaurs

  that scar the landscape

  behind our old farm.

  The tornadoes of dust they kick up

  as they move closer each season

  leave the porch cushions

  and our teeth

  dusted with a grimy film.

  The echoes

  of early-morning hammering

  wake me

  even on Saturday mornings.

  And though I hate

  what they’ve done

  to my kingdom of imaginary worlds—

  fairy towns and factories

  closed,

  the summer camp for ogres

  shut down,

  a homeless shelter for gnomes

  flattened—

  with chin on knees

  I can’t help but study the men,

  busy as bugs,

  not satisfied until they

  block another tree

  from me.

  poppies

  When poppies first

  push themselves

  out of the ground

  they look like a weed—

  hairy, grayish, saw-toothed foliage—

  easily a member

  of the ugly family.

  When I push

  sounds from my mouth

  it’s not elegant either.

  I wrestle to wrap

  my lips

  around syllables,

  struggle with my tongue

  to press the right points.

  When poppies bloom

  the same red

  as a Chinese wedding dress—

  satiny cups with ruffled edges,

  purplish black eyes—

  they’re a prize for patience,

  and if I take all that trouble

  to say something,

  I promise

  to try

  to make it worth

  the wait too.

  despite

  Mom and I lug

  house plants

  back outside

  from Granny’s rusting metal plant stand

  that’s blocking our one picture window

  so you can never tell

  who’s pulling in the drive

  through the tangle of green.

  Just like the plants,

  I dream of being

  back outside for long summer days,

  not stuck

  in occupational therapy

  twice a week,

  speech therapy three times a week,

  or tortured at the kitchen table

  with flash cards

  the little time Mom spends at home.

  Mom wants me

  to love school like she does,

  follow her lead to college,

  make my mark:

  the first astronaut with

  cerebral palsy,

  or at least

  a doctor or lawyer,

  something with a title or abbreviations, I guess.

  But Mom’s dreams for me

  are a heavy wool coat I

  wear, even in summer.

  backyard archaeology

  I’m using the hand spade to plant

  zinnias Granny started weeks ago

  when I unearth a whole peanut shell

  in the dark soil.

  Gran’s told the story

  dozens of times—

  how in the 1920s the nasty boll weevil

  nearly stole the note to this farm.

  Gran’s two oldest brothers went off

  to the factories in the north

  to keep paying the taxes

  while the little ones tried

  to pick the plants clean

  of the nasty devils. Hopeless.

  So Great-Grandpa turned to peanuts.

  One of the first to try the new crop—

  a rare old bird, he was, too—

  believing King Cotton could be overthrown

  by a beetle.

  Still, he saved this farm

  when most around these

  parts were lost.

  But now

  his big dreams, all lost,

  empty

  as the shell in my hand.

  dress of leaves

  I’m hidden

  beneath the willow tree,

  spying out her dress of leaves,

  counting the roofers

  on the latest house

  that grows

  behind us.

  Suddenly

  the dark parts.

  A wedge of light and a boy

  slip through,

  the air sucked from my lungs

  like a vacuum.

  The boy’s face freezes like stone.

  I cough uncontrollably.

  “Sorry. I was following

  a Danaus plexippus

  and thought it flew in here.”

  When I try to speak

  my voice is on vacation

  and a high-pitched squeak

  comes out instead.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you …”

  he says,

  backing out.

  “No. It’s okay,”

  I finally stammer.

  “Is it a bird?”

  “No. A monarch butterfly.”

  “Oh!”

  My voice like new chalk,

/>   but surprised by my bravery,

  “Come on. I know

  where they’ll be.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure—on Buddleia,

  butterfly bush.”

  And that’s how I meet Jordan,

  the boy who just moved

  into the rich neighborhood

  that keeps spreading

  behind us.

  searching

  I follow Jordan

  as he examines leaves

  from plants,

  looks for insects on their undersides.

  He pulls out his plant guidebook

  to search for names

  I already know.

  “How do you know the name

  of every plant?”

  I shrug. “Always have.”

  Jordan catches an inchworm,

  puts it on my palm.

  We watch it fold itself

  again and again

  up my arm

  to my smiling face.

  leapfrog

  On the east side of the house

  is Gran’s formal garden.

  She always meant to visit

  France or England,

  but never got the chance

  or the money.

  Widowed at twenty-five and

  working at the paper factory

  didn’t buy plane tickets,

  and raising a girl by yourself

  was hard enough without dreams

  of your own.

  So she planted rows of boxwoods

  in diamonds and rectangles,

  lined the paths with crushed bricks

  that crunch as you walk along.

  Then planted Grace Darling teacup roses

  and placed a wrought-iron

  patio table in the center

  of the shapes.

  When Granny serves Jordan and me

  Earl Grey tea

  and butter cookies

  but insists we call them biscuits,

  Jordan doesn’t even roll his eyes—

  and my heart leapfrogs

  with the word

  “friend.”

  an acre of imagination

  Jordan’s yard (and all his neighbors’, too)

  is so serious:

  lawn buzzed down like

  a Marine recruit’s cut

  and each house has:

  two terra-cotta pots

  perfectly placed on the porch—

  color-coordinated bouquets

  (like purses and shoes that

  grannies and little girls wear

  for Easter Sunday)

  that match the front door—

  and nothing more.

  Our house is a crazy quilt of color

  pots of every shape and size

  nestled everywhere—

  some hand painted,

  others mortared with mismatched

  chipped china,

  all bursting with at least

  three different plants—

  sweet potato vine,

  caladium,

  lamb’s ear—

  Gran’s palette

  of color and texture.

  The old shed

  wears a half-done mural of the Eiffel Tower

  made out of broken glass

  and the sun dances across it

  each day.

  Baskets get tucked into

  elbows of tree limbs,

  window boxes painted navy blue

  to show off the tuberous begonias spilling out

  against the peeling gray clapboards.

  Even our mailbox chokes

  with a tangle of vermillion trumpet vines.

  Our new neighbors

  might call this a hillbilly’s cottage

  and find our mix of colors

  unfashionable.

  But Gran says when she sold off

  all but a slice of this old farm

  she didn’t sell

  the imagination of the Wyatt women with it,

  though I wonder

  if we could bleach it—

  just a bit.

  me, the dandelion

  Gran calls Jordan’s dad at work

  so he can go with us.

  His dad says from now on we don’t

  even have to ask.

  We pile into her Jeep filled with

  two-inch starter pots—

  off to Lazy Acres,

  where we help hands knotted

  like asparagus fern roots

  remember the feel of soil and spring.

  It’s the only place

  where I don’t stick out

  like a dandelion

  in a purple petunia patch,

  and I like Jordan seeing me

  in a place I belong—

  everybody’s granddaughter.

  I dream of the lives

  my hands

  might know,

  like all of those

  I help here.

  small envelopes

  Today, the most popular girl in seventh grade,

  Natalie Jackson,

  slipped invitations between the vents in lockers,

  passed them across my desk in algebra,

  dropped them in laps as she glided

  back to her throne

  in the last row on the bus.

  But this time

  I didn’t have to study tornado drill directions

  in the cafeteria

  or pretend interest in the road signs,

  because Jordan

  filled that ever-vacant seat at the table

  and then the canyon of green vinyl on the bus too,

  then skipped his own stop and followed me on

  home

  like a stray.

  stuck to my tongue

  Each year

  since I could walk

  Granny’s built me

  a hiding place.

  But I’m embarrassed to see her

  poking the bamboo poles in the ground,

  tied at the top like a teepee

  with leftover yarn.

  She’ll plant them with scarlet runner beans

  that will curl and dangle,

  twisting their way

  to the top—

  shading my secret spot.

  I wish she’d realize

  I’m really much too old

  for one now,

  but the words get stuck

  to my tongue

  each time

  I try to tell her.

  autograph

  Granny cuts orange yarn for us—

  left over from lap quilts

  she crochets

  for the folks at Lazy Acres.

  We loop the yarn in the plot Gran tilled today,

  stepping back

  to check our work—

  even once from my window upstairs.

  Finally, we slit open the bank envelope—

  the marigold seeds’ winter home—

  and we drip them

  along the orange lines

  in the cool dark soil

  and dream of our signatures

  blooming by summer:

  Josie and Jordan.

  whirligigs

  Jordan knows

  odd facts

  about everything,

  like how a day on Saturn is ten hours long

  or how many people rode the first Ferris wheel (2,160).

  But each day Jordan reminds the other seventh graders

  that this kid who is a whole year younger than them

  knows so much more—

  it makes him about as popular as a pop quiz.

  And even though he lives in the largest

  of the brick mansions behind us

  (where most of the well-liked rich kids live)

  his house looks like the moving truck

  just pulled away.

  No pictures on the walls,

  dusty boxes still stacke
d

  in the corners of rooms,

  no curtains

  on any of the windows.

  It even smells empty.

  I learn Jordan’s mom died in an accident

  when he was just a toddler,

  and his dad really is

  a rocket scientist

  who works seventy hours each week.

  So Jordan never had a shot to learn

  some of the basics:

  Don’t correct a teacher in front of her class

  or launch up your hand with every answer.

  He stands a little too close,

  and his catalog clothes

  might cost a bunch,

  but they don’t match much.

  His brown curly hair

  drapes over dark chocolate eyes

  and when he smiles, all his teeth

  and even some gum

  show besides.

  He’s always excited

  about some new experiment

  to try in the garden

  or at the lab in his

  new basement.

  But I’ve learned this fact for myself:

  Days spin faster than a whirligig

  in a spring storm

  by the side

  of my new friend.

  bus stop

  The path to the creek

  isn’t too far,

  and the bridge

  Grandpa built

  when Mom was just a baby

  still solid as stone—

  six doors down from that is Jordan’s house.

  Each morning now

  Jordan shows up on our screened-in porch,

  munching from a baggie of cereal

  before I even have my shoes on.

  After school,

  Mr. DeLong, the bus driver,

  makes him get off in his own neighborhood,

  but he’s waiting on our screened porch

  by the time I get home.

  jewels

  The golden bushes out front

  called forsythia are blooming now—

  their long arms

  trying to waltz with wind.

  Granny, Jordan, and I cut

  their dance short,

  arrange them

  in colored glass vases for

  Gran’s old friends at Lazy Acres.

  We turn the leftovers into

  bracelets, crowns, necklaces:

  jewels

  that wilt by afternoon.

  flicker

  We go

  to Jordan’s house

  to pick up beakers, his microscope,