Half Acre Repost

I am holding half an acre
Torn from the map of Michigan
And folded in this scrap of paper
Is the land I grew in

Think of every town you've lived in
Every room you've laid your head
And what is it that you remember?
Do you carry every silence with you?
Every hour your heart was broken?
Every night the fear and darkness
Lay down with you?

February 2000. Martin had just died, and we were still sorting out the details to tell our kids. Third grader gets hit by a car, how close do the rest of us have to be? As the principal did her job with her usual inadequacy, the rest of us in the classrooms handled the facts. After school on the day they let him die, I sat down at my desk and put my head in my hands. I usually walked out with Troy to make sure there was an adult to witness the pick up. Make sure Larry wasn't drunk. Or armed. But today was too much. I'd been living life too connected to every single other living person breathing in this school. I needed to sit at my desk and stop thinking. Troy realized I'd changed my routine, and he hovered outside the door, anxious. He came back into the classroom and thrust a tiny scrap of paper at me.

"Could you write down the details for my mom, for the funeral? Nolan'll never remember."

I looked at him, through my hand, and obliged. Nolan, his brother, was in Martin's class. He probably wouldn't get it right. I started to write things down, including directions to the funeral home, the time for the mass, dates, what to wear--and he put his hand on mine.

"Could maybe she just call you?"

Without any mental debate over how this would be perceived in that house, I turned the scrap of paper over and began to write. But the numbers didn't look right to either of us.

"That's not what your number in the book was," he said, puzzled.

I looked again, and I realized in my befuddled state, I'd written down his grandmother's number. So we'd both betrayed ourselves to each other. He'd already had my number, and I had his only contact memorized. It was a test. I passed. He took his ballcap off and showed me--under the brim, turned up, written with a sharpie, was my phone number. I am carrying this scrap of paper/That can crack the darkest sky wide open/Every burden taken from me.

"I figure if I ever really needed to, I could run and find a phone." He put his hat back on.

It took every ounce of restraint not to kidnap him right there. We had to play the game, we were in the third quarter, we couldn't screw up now.

"Call 911 first, Troy. Then you can use that.' I touched the brim of his hat. Then I went home and waited by the phone.