The kids act like they’ve never seen themselves. Don’t you have mirrors here?
Why do we need mirrors when we can see the reflection of our goodness in the way others react to us?
Seriously, sometimes you need to check out your hair or make sure you don’t have food in your teeth.
Look at the mirrors in your friends’ eyes. That’s all anyone ever needs. To see beauty and reflection in others. Those are real mirrors.
Okay, I get it.
You are so gullible, Blade. Of course we have mirrors— well, most of us do, she says, laughing.
But it made sense.
Of course it did. Two things can be true at the same time.
Then she gets close
to my face,
and in her eyes
I see my reflection.
It’s surprisingly happy for the first time
in a while.
C’mon, Elvis is back.
Elvis?
The guide. It seems he is back just in time for you to leave.
In their language
Elvis
tells Joy that my mother is still in the mountains and that he will go back in five days if it does not rain, and, yes, the American can come along.
Thank him, Joy, I say, but I am not waiting five days. Can you please ask him if he’d be kind enough to accept cash to take me tomorrow? Please?
Game Night
Another night of music
and games—this time
Sia and I play Freeze and Hot Potato— but the highlight for her
is the tickle fight she and Rutherford have, that leaves him passed out on the bunkbed and me
and Joy
laughing so hard we decide to go for a walk.
People Are People
Two hundred dollars is more than a kind gesture. I will ask Elvis to accept half.
That’s not necessary. I just want to get on with this. I’m tired of waiting.
. . . .
. . . .
Are you nervous?
Very. But I’m excited too. This is finally happening.
I’m happy for you. I am glad you came here.
Me too.
Your father does not need to build us a dormitory, please tell him that.
He seems serious, and, I mean, you do need it.
How do I say this without sounding ungrateful?
Huh?
The people who come here to help never ask us what we need. They tell us.
. . . .
One church started the school, another promised to fix it.
One group built two wells, but didn’t leave any tools or show us how to repair it.
That’s why you have to walk so far for water?
I am appreciative. We are all appreciative. These things help us, but it would be nice to be asked sometimes what we want.
What do you want?
A stove would be nice. Perhaps, a washing machine, she says, laughing.
Really?
The women spend half of the day washing clothes. There is no time for their own self-development. There is no time to help their children with homework. We are so busy cleaning.
I see.
Maybe I will come visit you in America one day.
That would be nice.
Blade, there is something I must tell you. There are some whose eyes grow big at the sight of cash. They see your father as a treasure chest, and they think Konko has struck gold.
What does that mean?
People are people everywhere, Blade. We have gold diggers here too.
I like you, Joy. I think I— Good night, Blade, she says, and it’s only then, when she lets go
of my hand,
do I realize
I’ve been holding hers for the last ten minutes.
I wake up
to a familiar song
sung by
a hundred
little perfect voices
and one screaming
guitar.
Hey, kid, get up, it’s your big day, Uncle Stevie says,
hitting me with a pillow.
Standing outside
the bus
is a washed-out rock star
with a five-year-old angel
on his shoulder
and a
multitude
of shining sons
and daughters
drumming
dancing
and singing.
For me.
Happy Birthday
On the one hand,
I’m probably
the only kid
on earth
who forgot
his eighteenth birthday.
On the other,
can you really blame me
for not being eager
to celebrate
eighteen years of
not knowing
who made me
or why?
A Gift Returned
Rutherford hands Sia to me,
climbs
into the bus
and shouts . . .
Be right back. Nobody move!
Then reappears with
a guitar.
A fancy new one.
He walks over to me like he’s gonna serenade me.
Another one to add to your collection, huh? I ask.
Not my collection. This one’s for you.
It looks like
it dropped
from heaven.
The sexiest acoustic-electric guitar I’ve ever seen.
This had Blade written all over it, he says to me.
I don’t know what to say.
Well, you could start by saying, Sorry I crushed that priceless Van Halen, Dad.
I don’t, I mean, I— Kid, this is pure Madagascar rosewood. Rare as love. Just thank him, and play something, Uncle Stevie says.
Thank you.
It’s beautiful; what are you going to play? Joy says, knowing full well, I won’t.
It’s nice, but I’m not really . . . I mean— Play, play, Sia interrupts, getting louder with each echo.
PLAY!
I take the guitar from Rutherford, before she starts breaking my heart with her tears.
Maybe later, I lie, letting her pluck the strings.
But it does feel good to hold
a guitar
again.
Sure, I’ve missed
the love songs and the memories embedded
in the strings.
The weight
of comfort
in my arms.
The feel
of the tuning keys twisting
between fingers.
The blue-streak buzz of voltage vibrating in my head.
That was the guitar I loved.
How many days has it been?
How many hours of longing for the purple haze to find me
again.
But this. Now.
I don’t think so.
I’ve lost my chance to get
the spark back.
Before I leave
we eat sweet butter cake
from a bakery in town
and play more games.
Sia runs in and out of a tower of legs, chasing me.
Chasing Rutherford.
Climbing my back and his
like we’re mountains or trees.
She braids and twists his long, outrageous hair.
Rubs her fingers in mine, reminding me of happy times.
I will miss her.
When We Were Younger
Sometimes,
on special occasions, at the end
of a show,
Rutherford
would bring me and Storm on stage in front of
tens of thousands of screaming fans and introduce us as his little superheroes.
Then he would let her sing any song
she wanted:
“Twinkle, Twinkle,”
“This Little Light,”
and while she wailed, mostly off-key, he’d strum,
with his right hand, a melody for her.
And with his left, he’d massage my head,
which was his way of saying I love you and Everything’s gonna be okay.
I believed him, despite
all our madness.
And, I guess I still do.
Track 11: With or Without You
ROCKERS: U2 / ALBUM: THE JOSHUA TREE / LABEL: ISLAND / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY 1986–JANUARY 1987 / STUDIO: DANESMOATE HOUSE, DUBLIN, IRELAND
A haunting aching song about the complex tangled vines that leave you feeling twisted and crazy, yet connected and unable to let go of the possibility that one day the vines will produce flower or fruit
or something worth all the pain.
Rutherford and I have been twisted
into a knot of our own making for so long that I don’t even know if I can loosen up.