Something about the way Nana looked at me
on the day that is supposed to be all mine
put sharp stickers behind both my eyes,
and I had to turn them toward the dirt,
pretending I had not seen her face deflate
more than green balloons on the mailbox
that sagged heavy with my shame.  

Must be the flu goin’ ‘round, she told me,
stacking paper plates, napkins, pausing once
to brush back a lock of my hair that had
caught the wind and broken loose.  

All my friends must have the flu. I’m certain
they caught it that day— one month, four days ago—
the moment my daddy’s car parted with I-64 East.
Their eyes harden at me on the playground;
their arms can’t form a proper hug.  

I look back at Nana, and I know she feels
the sharp stickers too.  But her eyes meet
mine, a trembling hand reaches out,
finds mine and holds on surprisingly tight.   

Hand in hand—as we are making our way
up the wooden porch steps, back through the front door,
curling up in the afghan Nana made,
trying to forget about the uneaten cake,
the forlorn balloons at the end of the drive—
we come to the peace in the eye of the storm.
I cling to Nana; she clings to me. We doze.  

I’m above the cold currents with Daddy,
one arm wrapped tight around his broad shoulders,
other hand clutching a green balloon. We float for
a few moments, high above the river, then drift—
bit by bit—down toward the roiling water.