J. Foxtrot


Dear Papa,

Do you remember how our yard was lined with oleanders? Time traveling back to the days of cavemen, Rosie and I nibbled the small red fruit of the wolfberry bushes that grew by the AC unit. Playing witches, we mixed potions with the dry pods that hung from the mesquite—before it was struck by lightning one monsoon season. We plucked oranges, grapefruits, and lemons off the trees with our bare little hands; tore off the skin with whatever teeth we weren’t missing at the moment; squeezed their juices for ourselves or sold them on the corner under the eucalyptus tree. In the evenings we climbed those same fruit trees, broke off dead limbs to roast marshmallows and ate them off the stick. We collected the rare rainwater in pink plastic cups and caught drops on our tongues (snowflakes were still foreign to us). When the grass was tall and dry we romped through it, emerging with tiny cuts all over our ankles that we didn’t notice until they burned in the shower; when it was short and lush it cushioned our somersaults, and in return we ripped up chunks without a thought. 

So much life took place within that deadly ring—the oleanders. We avoided them not by admonishment or knowledge of their toxicity but by the sheer luck that characterized our childhood. We had no clue 

that the year between our births, two other toddlers, just as young but not as fortunate, died from a handful of those long, glossy leaves;

that they were the first plants to grow after the bombing of Hiroshima, their presence a sign that life could and would go on there;

that their sweet pink flowers steeped the tea of the Delphi oracles, bringing prophecies from Apollo to mortals hoping to elude their fates. 

I used to talk to a god, not Apollo, but the one you raised me to believe in. That was before I learned that the oleanders I saw every day could kill me, before my classmate drowned in the same river we’d swam in the day before, before our neighbor overdosed after we thought he’d gotten clean. Back then, you told us to pray for your dad because he was sick, and I obeyed like the dutiful daughter I was, not knowing the word “sick” could mean anything more grave than it did when Rosie stayed home from school with strep. Not until we went to visit your dad for what turned out to be the last time did I realize how much pain he was in and ask God to take that pain away. The next morning, I woke up to your mom in the doorway: “He’s passed.” Out of childish fear and good old Catholic guilt, I didn’t tell anyone about my prayer, and I haven’t asked God for anything since. 

It’s been over a decade, but I still remember you sitting on the side of your bed with your head in your hands, cursing yourself for not seeing him one more time. I’ve since left the little Eden within the ring of oleanders, crossed through the treacherous perimeter. With my back to that facade, I watch as the same disease that killed your dad now spreads in you.  

Not today, nor tomorrow, but I know it’s coming: the day I’ll need to talk to God again. 

I’ll ask if he remembers me. If he remembers you. 

If he knows about the note we buried in that yard surrounded by death, immortalizing the lives we lived there. Nothing more than a handprint on a cave wall.