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All the hard rock bands lined up for her funeral—
Hüsker Dü, Soul Asylum, the Jayhawks, others.
A rocker herself, she was remembered for her fine
and fiery spirit. The same toughness I had seen
when she was just a freckled miss, late last child
of an old Irish couple who lived in a stone house
across the street. She and I would circle each other
at the bus stop like boxers, a mixture of boy-girl
taunting and just showing off. One day as I sat
on the front bank of our yard, the sparring turned
affectionate. I called out, Betcha can't kiss me.
She was only just out of the tub, loosely wrapped
in a towel, but immediately shot across the street
to embrace me in a half-tackle, half-hug. Then
she pressed her lips against my cheek, hard, as if
to brand me hers forever. Of course I was always
hers, remained so even after my family drifted
out to the suburbs. And the years passed, and she
became a local celebrity, until the day she could
no longer fight off the depression that killed her.
But she had given me a look of triumph that day
even as her old mother scolded her–Katie! Then
she turned to run home just as quickly as she came,
wild and wet, the towel floating up from her legs
like the bright, unruly hem of an angel's dress.
My brother Tim is in the backyard.
He is slowly chewing Milk Duds
from a theatre-sized box.
It is unusual for him not to automatically
share with his younger brother,
since such treats are rare,
but this one is just for him. I stare in
fascination at his scabbed face
as I continue to turn the
strange phrase hit by a car around
in my head. But I have no desire
to share with him or to test
for the brother underneath all that
monster makeup. In fact, I am
feeling self-conscious, unsettled by
the whole broken routine of the day,
the neighbor girl's tearful story,
my mother's mad dash out the door,
the phone ringing with each new report,
my lost nap.
Smell of plum blossoms along the parkway.
A lunch box: warm milk, Miracle Whip.
Rubber raincoats, green beans from the garden.
Bath beads, chlorine from the pool next door.
A dead squirrel. Cigarette smoke soaked into
your grandparents' furniture.
Sounds of summer through the screen window.
Planes circling in landing patterns overhead.
Doors banging, kitchen radio, cookie jar lid.
The tub draining like a giant slurping a straw.
Dogs barking down the street, roaming free
before there were leash laws.
Sight of cars passing below the footbridge.
Lawns like prairies of weeds and wildflowers.
Green glass, hippie fashions, backyard fires.
A balloon released into the sky. Car tracks
etched neatly into the snow. A bat getting in
through the skylight.
New tar in the street, snapping like taffy.
Raised bumps on corn, softness of the peels.
Brittle texture of leaves in the window well.
The smooth hull of an aluminum canoe.
The humidity of a warming house and pinch
of parent-laced skates.
Taste of bananas back then, more mango-y.
Christmas cookies, anise, and rhubarb pie.
Icicles tasting slightly of mitten. Your appetite
always racing on a cold day. Salt and butter.
Bitter things not to put in your mouth:
grass, twigs, dandelions.
The first pictures forming in your head as
you read. How slowly the Mummy walked,
but still always caught you. Dark boxes in the
basement. Nights you stirred in your sleep,
dreaming of superpowers, and knocked all
the bedclothes to the floor.