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meaning of life?
I don’t know. Mostly he yells at me a lot. Oh.
Yeah.
Thanks for the food.
I just brought it over. But you’re welcome.
Bye.
Bye. José is acting weird.

WEEK 2 0
    We were laughing so hard,
so hard that no sound was coming out.
Me and Mom
laughing and laughing
because the birthday candle wouldn’t stand up
in the pile of vanilla yogurt
in the blue bowl
on Levi’s tray.
It would pitch one way
and then the other
and Mom would scream and laugh
as she tried to get it upright
and not burn her fingers.
I thought Levi was laughing, too,
at first,
maybe trying to blow out the candle
with puffs of air from his neck.
But he wasn’t laughing or puffing,
he was choking.
We were laughing,
not noticing
until he turned blue
and Mom swore
yanking him from his high chair
throwing him on the couch
ripping the emergency trach from where we leave it
taped to the wall.
I held him down,
she swapped out the trachs,
suctioned and suctioned and suctioned
gave him oxygen puffs from the big tank
until his eyes cleared
his smile woke up
his little hands signed more more more .
And that is the story of Levi’s first birthday.
I think, actually, it is kind of perfect.

    We need more help. The words slip out between my teeth
like mud dripping from fingers.
Slow. Uncontrolled.
drip
plop
splat
Mrs. B looks up.
She’s trying not to look surprised
but her forehead gives her away.
One line between her eyes
for each word out of my mouth.
She puts down her pen.
Her eyes hold my eyes
like two tractor beams.
What kind of help? Her voice is very quiet
like maybe I’m a squirrel
and she’s trying to feed me an acorn
from the palm of her hand.
Come closer, little squirrel.
Closer.
Closer.
We need a nurse every day , I say.
Every day and every night. Mrs. B nods. She writes something down.
She looks up.
Good job, little squirrel.
Good job.
Mrs. B puts her other hand on my hand.
I don’t pull it away.

    A soft knock.
Can’t be the mailman.
He bangs.
Can’t be the medical supply delivery guy.
He was here last week.
Another soft knock.
Maybe it’s a million-dollar delivery.
I open the door.
Hi, Timothy. Hands holding a covered dish
stacked with another covered dish
and a small paper bag on the tippy-top—
black hair shines
black glasses slipping down her nose
she peeks around the pile of food
she smiles and looks away.
My face feels warm.
Hi, Isa.
Mami sent dinner. But I don’t hear her words.
I only see her fingertips
wrapped around the dishes,
her nails painted with stars.
Little yellow stars.
A whole unknown universe
on each small finger.

    Maybe I would ask Dad
for advice about girls
but probably not
though you never know
not like I need advice
about girls
I mean
I’m just saying.
Never mind.

    At school today
I caught myself,
like actually stopped in my tracks
in the hallway outside of gym,
and put both hands over my mouth.
I was humming the theme song to
Baby Signing Adventure and I was liking it.

WEEK 2 1
    How big are your feet? I thought you were speaking in code, James.
That’s why I didn’t answer.
Not at first.
I was deciphering your code.
How big are your feet? You mean for running from crimes committed?
How big are your feet? You mean, will I be tall enough
to beat you up one day?
How big are your feet? For stomping and pitching fits?
But you meant it just like you asked it.
How big are my feet.
Then you plopped down the sneakers.
Not new, but almost new.
Check out these kicks. And you thought you were so cool
saying kicks instead of sneakers.
James. James. James.
But you got the size exactly right.
Did you used to work at a carnival?
Now that would be cool.
(Thanks for the sneakers.)
(I mean kicks.)
(Well, no, I don’t. I mean sneakers.)
(Ha.)

    What do you think about
when you think about your father? Mrs. B sounds so formal
when she asks questions like that.
What do I think about? I look at the phone on Mrs. B’s desk.
It’s rectangular and flat,
shiny