Walking on Glass (4 page)

In class today

we had a debate about

whether kids who kill

should be tried as adults.

Some of the class say

kids shouldn't be tried as adults

because we don't always know

right from wrong.

I think they're full of crap.

We do know right from wrong.

I don't doubt for a second

that most people think

what I want to do

is wrong.

But I don't want to

murder

my mother.

I want to set her

free.

The unlawful killing of a human

being

with malice

aforethought.

I'm thinking about it.

Does that make it

murder?

Dr. Mac asks,

“What are you thinking?”

“Do you think that if

someone made your life

miserable,

unhooking that person's

life support

would be the same as murder,

even if you know

they will never get better?”

He leans forward

and looks into my eyes.

“It's not what I think

that's important.

It's what you think.”

Sometimes I wish

I hadn't held Mom up.

Then it would have

all been over

that rainy June day.

Jack comes by.

He says, “I need a place to stay.

Mom kicked me out

when I hit her.”

But I just say,

“No.”

And close the door.

Dad says,

“Jack isn't

coming by anymore.”

I nod.

He smiles and pats me on the back,

and my cage bars

weaken.

Dad sits beside

Mom's bed.

He strokes her hair

and whispers to her.

He closes his eyes.

Clenching his jaw,

he lets out a sigh.

When he opens his eyes,

a tear drips from each corner.

He shakes his head

and walks out of the room.

I wait for him to come back.

He doesn't.

I wonder

if Dad is torn up inside

for the same reason

I'm torn.

Today

there I am

playing football

and suddenly it starts

to rain and I'm back

in time holding

my mother up

by her legs.

And I pray

I can hold

her long enough

to tell her

what she needs

to hear.

But before I

can get the words out,

I get tackled.

Today

Dr. Mac explains how

sick Mom was.

How she needed medicine

to make her feel better,

but she refused to take it.

He explains how,

if she did,

she'd still be here.

Today Dr. Mac

explains how

sick Mom was

and how nothing she did

was my

fault.

I can't concentrate

on homework.

I watch the news

and hear about

a drive-by downtown.

A woman was killed

by a stray bullet.

They caught the shooter.

He's seventeen and

will be tried as

an adult.

My heart races,

thinking it could have been

me who killed that woman.

And I thank God

it wasn't.

It was Jack.

Mom doesn't have

a future.

Mom doesn't have

a life.

Mom has been dead

for six months.

You can't call

it murder.

This morning

Mom's garden

froze over.

No one will cover

the fading roses.

Petals dropping

onto the frosty ground

like tears of

death.

I dream about Jack

beating up that kid.

Blood dripping down his face

all over his shoes.

I watch confused,

knowing that didn't happen.

There wasn't blood

on those shoes.

Then it's my mother's face

and the blood drips

down onto my shoes.

I wake up screaming.

Because

I know

that
happened.

That day,

I came home and found

a new pair of shoes

by the door.

When I went into the dining room

to tell Mom they were

too big,

Mom stepped off of the table.

A noose slung around her neck.

I caught her

and held her up.

Mom struggled.

She kicked me away.

But I wouldn't

let go.

I wanted to tell her

I loved her.

I wanted to tell her

I needed her.

I wanted to tell her

to stay with us.

But the wires holding

the chandelier snapped,

and it crashed on top of her head,

and my arm broke

and I dropped her.

Her blood splattered

all over my new shoes.

I remember

her soft voice

floating through the air

like the smell of fresh roses,

as she sings me a lullaby

to take away

the monsters in the night.

I remember

her dimpled smile,

her blue eyes,

her gentle touch.

I remember

my mother,

the way she was.

Frost paints

the dining room window.

Outside

Mom's rosebushes

shiver as the wind

beats on their

bare branches.

I search through the

dark basement

to gather ragged

potato sacks.

I wrap them

around my mother's

precious plants.

Thorns pierce my hand

and blood drips down

the stem of the frozen bush

like the tears

on my face.

It's early,

but I go visit Mom

anyhow.

She lies on the bed.

Her hair plastered

to the sides of her head.

Machines drip liquid

into her veins,

feeding her.

The roses in her vase

are rotting and

she's

rotting

with

them.

If the doctors say

she's not going to come back,

then shutting off the machines

wouldn't be killing her—

it'll just finish

what she has already

done.

The doctors take

Dad into another room,

leaving me alone

with the shell

of my mother.

I brush the hair from her face

and rest my hand

on her forehead.

I sit,

listening to the machines

as their parts move,

and I'm no longer afraid.

I bend

and kiss my mother's cheek.

“I will always love you, Mom.”

I reach over

and shut

off

the machine.

When I open the door

to leave,

I notice,

I finally fit

into the shoes

my mother gave me.