“I'm a poet, I know it, I don't show it, I'll prob'ly blow it.” He knocked it into gear, eased out the clutch, and rumbled down the street. Turning backward, he waved. “Ciao, pardner!”
Martin waved back but Diaz didn't see. He had gassed it and was gone.
Martin stood on the sidewalk a minute longer, till he could no longer hear the bike's motor, and then went into the house, Isha trailing behind, to read the letter his parents had left him. It would be a day of goodbyes.
Goodbye Delana, goodbye Diaz — so he would say the last one. He sat on the sofa, the papers between his fingers, and hesitated. Once he read the final words, all his past would be over, all his ties would be gone, and in front of him there would only be what future he decided to walk into. His future. By himself. His alone. All his options would be open.
He unfolded the pages, began reading, and heard his mother's voice.
Hello, son. First we want you to know that we love you and we are not uncomfortable.
....
With the pen gripped in her fingers, the woman looked at the blank pages. “I don't know what to say.” Her eyes were rimmed with tears, but she did not cry.
She sat on their sofa, her husband next to her, with Isha at their feet, watching them carefully.
“I want to see him again... once more.”
Martin's father had one arm around her. “I know.” His voice choked off. He took a deep breath. “I know.”
They had awakened that morning with headaches and a slight fever, so they knew they had only a day or two remaining. It was the eventuality they had prepared for. Already, most of the neighborhood was vacant, and the day before, three people had gone down their street to see if there were any confined pets. Mr. and Mrs. Lake had said goodbye to their remaining friends, their house was clean, everything was in order, and they were ready.
The man reached behind him to his back pocket and took out his wallet. From it he removed a photograph — actually a piece cut from another photograph — of Martin, when he was 24, with his mother. It had been Christmas and they had their cheeks pressed together, caught in mid-laugh. He put the picture on the coffee table.
“I didn't know you carried that,” she said, studying it.
“For quite a while,” he said.
Isha bobbed her head and pushed her long muzzle against his side and snuffled.
“And my sweetest half, of course,” he said, petting her.
“What will we do with her?”
“We leave her for Martin. He's due to come out in a month. He's had no physical contact with the outside, so he will be safe till he comes out. And when he comes out, in the worst case, if he's exposed right then, he'll have at least three days. Forty pounds of food and a tub of water should last her till them.”
“We know he'll come back here.” She nodded and put one hand atop her husband's. “Now, what do we say to him?”
“We don't want to sound grieved or... tortured,” he said. “Or hysterical.”
She smiled a little. “We never sound hysterical.”
He kissed her neck, just below her ear. “I think there's a bottle of wine in the refrigerator. Before we talk to our son, why don't you heat up the French bread. We have a few grapes, and the cheese will go bad if we don't eat it. We'll go outside, have a picnic in the backyard. We can write to him out there.”
She leaned her head a moment on his shoulder. “We were all set to be grim, weren't we.”
They spread a blanket under the mulberry tree and ate warm bread and grapes and cheese and drank wine and threw Isha's orange tennis ball for her to retrieve. They even laughed.
Several times they thought of Martin as being there, quietly listening as they talked to each other about there being more birds this season and what they would do if they could do things over again.
His father wrote, “I would have married your mother first, instead of second, and I would have been more like Isha. I would have smelled the air more
Martin waved back but Diaz didn't see. He had gassed it and was gone.
Martin stood on the sidewalk a minute longer, till he could no longer hear the bike's motor, and then went into the house, Isha trailing behind, to read the letter his parents had left him. It would be a day of goodbyes.
Goodbye Delana, goodbye Diaz — so he would say the last one. He sat on the sofa, the papers between his fingers, and hesitated. Once he read the final words, all his past would be over, all his ties would be gone, and in front of him there would only be what future he decided to walk into. His future. By himself. His alone. All his options would be open.
He unfolded the pages, began reading, and heard his mother's voice.
Hello, son. First we want you to know that we love you and we are not uncomfortable.
....
With the pen gripped in her fingers, the woman looked at the blank pages. “I don't know what to say.” Her eyes were rimmed with tears, but she did not cry.
She sat on their sofa, her husband next to her, with Isha at their feet, watching them carefully.
“I want to see him again... once more.”
Martin's father had one arm around her. “I know.” His voice choked off. He took a deep breath. “I know.”
They had awakened that morning with headaches and a slight fever, so they knew they had only a day or two remaining. It was the eventuality they had prepared for. Already, most of the neighborhood was vacant, and the day before, three people had gone down their street to see if there were any confined pets. Mr. and Mrs. Lake had said goodbye to their remaining friends, their house was clean, everything was in order, and they were ready.
The man reached behind him to his back pocket and took out his wallet. From it he removed a photograph — actually a piece cut from another photograph — of Martin, when he was 24, with his mother. It had been Christmas and they had their cheeks pressed together, caught in mid-laugh. He put the picture on the coffee table.
“I didn't know you carried that,” she said, studying it.
“For quite a while,” he said.
Isha bobbed her head and pushed her long muzzle against his side and snuffled.
“And my sweetest half, of course,” he said, petting her.
“What will we do with her?”
“We leave her for Martin. He's due to come out in a month. He's had no physical contact with the outside, so he will be safe till he comes out. And when he comes out, in the worst case, if he's exposed right then, he'll have at least three days. Forty pounds of food and a tub of water should last her till them.”
“We know he'll come back here.” She nodded and put one hand atop her husband's. “Now, what do we say to him?”
“We don't want to sound grieved or... tortured,” he said. “Or hysterical.”
She smiled a little. “We never sound hysterical.”
He kissed her neck, just below her ear. “I think there's a bottle of wine in the refrigerator. Before we talk to our son, why don't you heat up the French bread. We have a few grapes, and the cheese will go bad if we don't eat it. We'll go outside, have a picnic in the backyard. We can write to him out there.”
She leaned her head a moment on his shoulder. “We were all set to be grim, weren't we.”
They spread a blanket under the mulberry tree and ate warm bread and grapes and cheese and drank wine and threw Isha's orange tennis ball for her to retrieve. They even laughed.
Several times they thought of Martin as being there, quietly listening as they talked to each other about there being more birds this season and what they would do if they could do things over again.
His father wrote, “I would have married your mother first, instead of second, and I would have been more like Isha. I would have smelled the air more
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