Kid Billy is not a kid any longer; he’s moved to Phoenix

 At Christmas, 2020

 

                Tuesday, Billy, a grandson whom I raised from eight months, now 31, moved with his housemates to a suburb of Phoenix. Why so far away? The wife of the couple is a traveling nurse, and she was in Phoenix when the two men—Billy and Darnell, both Henderson Reddies—with the wife’s agreement decided. They’ve rented an apartment; the rent is $2400+ a month.

                They loaded a U-Haul with their belongings, secured Billy’s car on a trailer behind, and left Hot Springs this week. Saturday night, Billy visited me to say goodbye and pick up some things to take along. Thank goodness, he won’t be driving his 2012 Ford Focus we bought in Arkadelphia.

                While he was here, I asked him to go through a couple of bureaus of his stuff, the attic where more of his “kid” stuff filled another bureau, then out to the shed. He chose to take his punching bag, his trumpet and mute, and various other items he put in a small suitcase. He said I could get rid of his childhood toys and his dress shirts that used to be required uniform at Cracker Barrel.

                Speaking of Cracker Barrel, he said there are eight of them in Phoenix and if he couldn’t score a job at one of them, there were over a hundred fact-food places.

                He’s been to Italy, Greece and Hawaii, so I’m sure he’ll make it in the United States. But as any parent, grandparent or guardian does, I’ll pray for safety and a continued good life. He crowed that his credit score was in the 700s after only two years. He always envied mine in the 800s.

                In my in-progress memoir, I have a collection of poems about Billy, mostly haiku and senryu, but several longer poems.

 In his honor and my emotional state, I’ll share “The Band Concert.”

“My Christmas concert’s in a week,” the teen/

reminded me. “Our teacher said no jeans

or sweats, just slacks . . . and what the heck are slacks?”

he asked, this kid who’d never worn a pair

of jeans until he hit the middle school

and kids began to yank his sweatpants. How

could one so old—a high school freshman—be

so smart, so literary, and not have

a clue to what was meant by slacks. “They’re pants,

for heaven’s sake! Long trousers.” Satisfied, 

he turned to me and said, “My last year’s pants--

those khakis in the closet—they’re OK.”

But since I had to go to Fred’s, I looked

for nicer slacks. A pair of “carpenters”

in charcoal gray, the size his blue jeans were,

would guarantee a perfect fit. My kid

would be the neatest trumpeter on stage.

The time to dress drew near. He pulled the new

pants up and—glory be!—a three-inch gap

between the button and the buttonhole!

Those britches kissed the floor and khakis took

their place. Again, a gap no girdle could

abridge. Now what? The time was running out.

I reached into my closet for some gray,

elastic-waisted slacks. “It’s all you’ve got!”

I said. “Get moving!” He obeyed; they fit.

"I need an undershirt.” Just like a girl--

well, nearly,--budding nipples must be hid.

He pulled my white shell on and wiggled in

to last year’s shirt, still buttoned up. Too tight.

The kid resembled someone middle-aged

who chugged the beer. ”No way,” I said, and grabbed

my only long-sleeved, collared shirt. “The way

this buttons up is backwards!” “Never mind,

it’s time to go . . .” And, sure enough, my boy

looked sharp, as sharp as Christmas tunes he played.

               

I’ll miss him, but he thought he’d make it home for Christmas.

c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA