Family by Micol Ostow Page A

Him.
    to listen
    to Henry’s
    word.
    to revel in His
    love.
    on the first day, Henry awaits, ever hopeful, ever aware. perches on the stoop of the general store, drums graceful fingers against worn-in jeans.
    smiles.
    knows.
    everything.
    every secret tucked within every hollow space.
    on the first day, the ranch is still immaculate.
    pristine.
    gleaming with promise and anticipation.
    Henry says:
    there is no i , no ego.
    Henry teaches that all we need is us:
    our family.
    but by the third day of waiting, His grin falters at the corners.
    by the third day without our visitor,
    without a promise of a higher calling,
    a platform, Henry’s forehead
    is a road map of worry.
    Henry’s lips purse together with an expression so foreign to Him that at first, i hardly recognize the emotion:
    concern.
    and by the third day, high desert winds have kicked a fine coating of dust over the surface of our surroundings
    so that we are no longer
    clean.

whispers
    cocooned within a threadbare sheet
    flanked by family
    i inhale
    breathe in starlight,
    charged particles,
    antimatter
    and choke back
    doubt.
    through the thin layer of fabric that
    swaddles me,
    shelly’s ribs expand
    and contract,
    press against my own.
    she sleeps soundly,
    her rhythms,
    her pulse, smooth,
    safe.
    all of our sisters—
    tucked tightly into warm, worn nests—
    sleep soundly.
    smooth.
    safe.
    while i:
    inhale.
    breathe in dusk,
    studs of starlight
    antimatter
    and choke back
    doubt.
    alone
    amidst my family,
    breathing my own ragged staccato,
    i listen for sounds.
    whispers.
    they come to me,
    unbidden.
    once the campfire has been snuffed,
    once Henry has chosen
    and our family—
    all of our fractured, shrieking bodies—
    have been tucked tightly,
    nestled into
    worn, warm linens—
    that is the hour
    when the sounds come to me,
    unbidden.
    when the truth
    seeps.
    slithers.
    wraps itself around my ankles
    like seaweed,
    rotted,
    washed up at the water’s edge
    by the force of the roiling tide.
    as i skate the knife-edge
    between conscious and sleep,
    between wake and trance,
    between
    worry and
    safety,
    a truth floats to the surface.
    it dances like a whisper.
    like a secret.
    like a code.
    at night,
    when our barn is shadowed
    in lace patterns of moonlight,
    junior and leila
    speak in code.
    they perch on the covered porch
    just outside our sleeping quarters.
    they think
    we are—
    all of us—
    asleep.
    but
    i can hear
    the
    whispers.
    streaked,
    split open
    by the empty creak
    of a shaky, spindly rocker—
    i can hear the whispers,
    their whispers,
    all too well.
    the secret goes:
    leila and junior:
    they worry.
    about Henry’s message,
    His word.
    they fear the music man
    has forsaken us,
    leaving us precious few ways
    to peddle, to spread
    to deliver
    our word,
    our prayer,
    our gospel,
    into the world.
    leila sighs.
    the squeak of her chair is a protest.
    she says,
    “Henry’s getting restless.”
    restless.
    the word sizzles on her tongue.
    “wouldn’t you be?” junior asks. “that man was supposed to come. supposed to listen. to make a recording of Henry’s music.”
    a beat, a pause, in which i imagine tented fingers, a reflective gaze into the inky, empty darkness.
    (so familiar are the outlines of junior’s body, his boundaries, to me by now.)
    “money from the music would’ve gone a long way.”
    the tapping of a work boot against a buckled, softened wooden slat. the sound of force and friction, of solid things, set to spoil.
    “money would’ve meant we could stop dealing. or maybe, that we could stay here at the ranch forever.”
    i can’t see leila’s face, of course,
    beyond the image unspooling
    in my mind’s eye
    ,
    but the hitch,
    the moment, is
    deadly.
    potent.
    “it’s not about the money,” she says, and her voice is tight.
    “it’s about Henry’s message.”
    junior chuckles, a rattling sound.
    “yeah, and you think that’s gonna pay our way around here? you think emmett’s just gonna give us a