Dad, who sometimes played the role
of homeschooler, tried his best to teach me what he could, but his own education was lacking. Some people might write that off as Oklahoma ranchers not caring about reading, writing, and arithmetic, but Ma-maw and Pops valued school
learning. Uncle Drew was a good
student, according to Ma-maw, but Dad always preferred messing around with engines to building his brain.
That boy always did as little schoolwork as possible. Just barely enough to get by, she told me once. Then he’d sweet-talk his teachers into passing him anyway.
That isn’t so hard to believe, especially if his teachers were female. Knowing this now doesn’t bother me much,
but when I was young it used to make me mad because I loved when I got
to go to school. It made me feel like a normal kid. Whenever I had actual
classroom time, I gathered every bit of knowledge I could, and held it close.
But English and social studies came easier than math and science, so I guess
I’ll always lag in anything numbers related.
One Thing Math Is Good For
Is making me drowsy.
Can’t sleep? You don’t need melatonin or Lunestra.
Twenty minutes staring
vacantly at notes about
algebraic equations
does the trick every time.
I click off my bedside lamp, drop my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and burrow
into the darkness. The faint sound of Dad’s TV show
is soothing, and somewhere outside an owl cries whoo-whoo over wind tapping against window glass.
A pleasant lull wraps itself around me and as I wait
for sleep to find me, that
silly refrain surfaces again.
The sleigh knows the way, so Santa, please don’t sweat it.
Only this time, the faintest hint of a voice is attached.
It’s a clear, warm soprano, familiar but not, and now
she sings, You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I’m telling you why. Santa Claus is coming . . .
It’s at once unsettling and comforting. The latter because I know the words are meant for my ears; the former
because I can’t match a face with the voice, and I must.
One of Dad’s women? Maybe, but I don’t remember any of them singing, at least not like this, and definitely not to me. I know, somehow, this person’s song is meant specifically for my ears.
My mother. That’s who it is, and I don’t want to listen to this remnant of my earlier musing.
I put the pillow over my head so the only thing left to hear is the rasp of my breathing.
By Morning
My heart
has mostly glued itself back together, and my brain has excised last night’s unbidden memory, scrubbed away most of the remains, leaving me slightly off-kilter. I’ve never embraced the idea of chasing
after the past when the present is difficult enough. Besides, I want no specters
inhabiting my future, so I’ve determined to exorcise them, banish them into the realm of nightmares.
I Wake Late
Stumble out of bed and into clothes.
No time for breakfast, I grab my backpack, yell, “Hurry, Dad!”
and go wait for him in the car.
It’s either ride with him
or take a seat
on the school bus that passes by
around the same time he leaves for work every day.
Buses are for kids.
Okay, technically I still qualify, but considering I was robbed
of a normal childhood, I’ve never really felt like much of a kid.
Once upon a time, I wanted to. I dreamed of playing with other kids.
Dolls. Trucks. Princesses.
Army. Go Fish.
Anything but solitaire.
I wished I could share the playground with someone about my size who’d swing beside me, higher and higher, a race to the sky.
I yearned to ride a bike or roller-skate around a block
busy with children eager for my company.
But anytime
I actually managed to make a buddy, it wouldn’t be long before we’d leave her in a cloud of exhaust as we hit the highway again.
I learned not to bother with connections.
Even once we moved here and it seemed like we might hang around a while, it was months
before I allowed myself the joy of friendship.
Without Monica’s Persistence
That never would’ve happened.
I have zero clue why she decided to make me her pet project.
She reached out before she knew my background, so it couldn’t have been because she felt sorry for me.
I must’ve looked starved for company.
By then it was much too late to go back and try to reclaim some kind of childhood. Nope, I’ve never been a kid. More like a dad-sitter, and God knows he needed one. Still does.
Someone to cook and clean, a substitute wife to make up for the one who split.
Someone to set his workday alarm when he forgets, to quiet the house on weekends when he wants to sleep in. He always says he couldn’t make it without me, that he needs a small voice of reason, not to mention a keeper.
Case in Point
Here he comes hustling
out the door. With luck,
neither of us will be tardy.
But I don’t count on luck.
Which is why I’m relatively