Reaching for Sun
Authors: Tracie Vaughn Zimmer
reaching for sun
Tracie Vaughn Zimmer
CONTENTS
For my mother,
Pauline Courtney Schwitalski,
and in memory of my grandmothers,
Jane Wyatt Stines,
Ollie DePew Vaughn, and
Lenora “Jackie” Whittington Courtney
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer.
—William Shakespeare (SONNET VI)
The late bell rings,
but
I’m hiding
in the last stall
of the girls’ bathroom
until I hear
voices
disappear behind closing
classroom doors.
Only then
do I slip out
into the deserted hallway
and rush to room 204,
a door
no one
wants to be seen opening.
Not even
me.
With my odd walk
and slow speech
everyone knows
I’ve got special ed,
but if I wait
until the hall clears,
taunts like tomatoes
don’t splatter
the back of my head.
It’s the last day
before winter break,
when the hallway is littered with
Christmas ribbons and wrappings,
when presents are passed
between romances and friends.
As I walk through the door
Mrs. Sternberg hands me
a lunch bag
decorated with stickers and stamps
that’s full of candy,
but it won’t change
the lonely taste
of seventh grade.
If being assigned to room 204
wasn’t bad enough,
now the new occupational therapist
(Mrs. Swaim)
appears to escort me
to her torture chamber.
She nags me
(just like Mom)
about wearing my splint.
She reminds me
(just like Mom)
to do the painful stretches
and exercises.
But my thumb will always be pasted to my palm,
and my left wrist and shoulder
connected
by an invisible rubber band
called cerebral palsy.
I sit third row on the bus,
try to scrunch myself
tight
against the frosted window,
feet on fire
from the heater beneath.
Hiding—again—
from this week’s troublemakers
assigned
to the first row:
Natalie Jackson, for cussing;
Pete Yancey, for spitwads;
Caleb Harrison, for flipping off
a delivery guy.
And from their friends who sit
in the back of the bus—
caged animals waiting to be unleashed
in the Falling Waters neighborhood.
I’m last to get released
from this rolling tortured tin can,
as they head off in pairs and packs—
joking,
laughing,
gossiping,
planning,
new scenes
for their perfect lives.
In the kitchen
Gran’s stationed at her double oven,
four pots
bubbling and steaming,
sweat beading on her upper lip.
Her friend Edna (the complainer)
stands near the sink
mixing a giant bowl of batter.
“Hi, Ms. Edna.”
“Hello, honey.”
“How was school, Josie-bug?” Gran asks,
wiping her face with her oven-mitted hand.
“Okay,” I lie—
in front of her friend.
Edna hands off a wooden spoon
for me to stir
the caramel on the double boiler—
the main ingredient for Gran’s famous
popcorn balls.
Already coconut bars,
divinity (little white flowers
that melt on your tongue),
and vanilla fudge march across countertops
on wax paper.
We’ll deliver them all to Lazy Acres,
the nursing home
where Gran visits her “old” friends.
The one place
other than here
only smiles greet me.
Each day
Gran wears
khaki elastic pants,
a crisp white collared shirt
that never gets spotted
no matter how much
she cooks
or works in the garden.
Her brown vinyl purse
is always within reach,