Feathers (12 page)

And even though I felt kind of stupid doing that with my friends there watching and singing,
Lonnie gotta baby-sit, Lonnie gotta baby-sit,
I did it anyways because Mama would get that smile on her face. Daddy used to say, “That’s a smile make a regular man climb Kilimanjaro.”

Back then, I didn’t even know what Kilimanjaro was. Now I do though. It’s a mountain in Africa. And if Mama and Daddy were alive and we were still little kids, I’d take you down that slide a hundred times. And climb Kilimanjaro if Mama asked me to.

 

Love,
Your brother to the
highest mountain,
Locomotion

This morning, when I got up and saw the rain still coming down, I sat on the couch watching it for a long, long time, thinking about you and Mama and Daddy. Thinking about when we was all together and we’d do things like take the bus to the Prospect Park Zoo and take the train to Coney Island. Or like when me and Daddy used to go to the Mets games and everybody would always be asking us how come we liked the Mets when the Yankees was the ones always winning. I remember Daddy said, “Ain’t it boring to always be winning?” And I thought about that for a long time even though I was just a little kid. I thought about how if you walk out on the field or the basketball court or the handball court already knowing you got the game in the bag, what’s the point? Like when me and Angel and Lamont and Clyde be playing ball and we get some in and miss some—well, like when that ball finally goes through that net and you hear that
swoosh!
sound and your homeboys be slapping your back and saying “good shot” and stuff? If you knew that was coming, you wouldn’t even get that good feeling you get when it happens. You’d just be all regular and not caring and stuff. But when I was a little kid, I’d just say, “Winning’s fun and I
sure
wish the Mets would win a little bit more!” Daddy used to laugh that big laugh of his and hug me so hard I couldn’t even feel my breath moving through my lungs.

Felt real good, Lili.

 

Locomotion

Every day, the memories get a little bit more faded out of my head and I try to pull them back. It’s like they used to be all colorful and loud and everything. They’re getting grayer though. And sometimes even the ones that used to be loud get real, real quiet.

Lili, do you remember? There was a time when all of us were together. There was a time before the fire and before nobody wanted to be my foster mama until Miss Edna came along. There was a time before your foster mama came and said, “I’ll take the little girl but I don’t want no boys.” You were the little girl, Lili. And you didn’t want to go. It was raining that day just like it’s raining now. And you held on to me and cried and cried. You kept saying,
I want to be with my brother.

And I hope you know that I wanted to be with you too. But I didn’t want you living in a group home anymore. I wanted you in a nice house with nice people and not kids everywhere taking your stuff and being mean to you.

Remember I said,
One day, we’ll be together again
? I know that day is taking a lot longer to come than it should, but I still believe it’s gonna get here, Little Sister. And that’s why I’m trying to write you lots and lots. Because I love writing and I love you and when me and you are together again, I’m gonna want us to remember everything that happened when we were living apart. I’m gonna hold on to all these letters and when we’re living together again, they’re gonna be the first present I give you. A whole box of the Before Time. That’s what this is, Lili, even though I know when me and you get sad, all we think about is the other Before Time—before the fire, before we lived apart from each other. But this is a whole new Before Time. And it’s cool, because we’ll be able to remember a whole other set of good things, right? So I’m writing. And I’m remembering. For me. And for you, Lili.

 

Love,
Locomotion

I know it’s been three years since that day when your foster mama came. But the way I figure it—me and you are both gonna live to be at least a hundred years old and given that fact—three years, four years, even if it takes nine years—well, that’s not a real, real long time after all.

 

Love you to eternity,
Locomotion

Today in school we got the good news that Ms. Cooper is going to be leaving soon. Her belly’s been growing a lot since school started but nobody in class liked her enough to ask if that was a baby inside. Not even LaTenya and LaTenya likes
everybody.
On the first day of school, I told Ms. Cooper I was a poet since last year Ms. Marcus told me that’s what I should call myself because she said my poems were real good. I liked saying
I’m a poet
a whole lot and every time I say it to Rodney or Miss Edna, they always say
You sure are, so just keep on writing those poems, Lonnie
. But when I said it to Ms. Cooper, she just looked at me and folded her arms. Then she asked me if I’d published any books. I said not yet, since I’m only in sixth grade and all. But I told her I wanted to publish a whole lot one day. Ms. Cooper just gave me her back and walked over to her desk. She said, “Until you publish a book, you’re not a poet, you’re an
aspiring
poet, Lonnie.” So after that I went back to being just a regular boy—not a poet like Ms. Marcus had said. I don’t think Ms. Marcus had been lying. I guess there’s just people that think you’re a good poet and people who don’t really care about poetry and the people who like to write it. I still write a few poems but mostly I’m writing these letters to you, Lili. It’s not like I believe Ms. Cooper—it’s just that she made me feel a little stupid for thinking I was really a poet. I hate that feeling. And plus, the very next day after she said that, I got a forty-two on the pop quiz she gave us. It became just like in the olden days, before Ms. Marcus said I was a poet. Back when I used to get bad grades all the time. And then, after Ms. Marcus told me I was a poet, it was like my schoolwork started getting easy. Well maybe not
easy
easy, but if I got good grades and stuff, Ms. Marcus would let me have free time to write and that made me want to get good grades. But now Ms. Cooper and her mean old words and her big old belly are leaving. We’re getting a new teacher. I don’t know who it’s going to be, but anybody is better than her. When she told us she was leaving, I wanted to stand up in my chair and start cheering. But I knew if I did that, she’d put a mark in the book by my name and I already have enough marks in her book. I hope her book leaves with her.

I got my fingers crossed that Ms. Cooper’s replacement is going to be somebody who doesn’t think you need a whole published book to be a poet!

 

Love,
x-poet
Locomotion