“And while I got that about him, he never seemed to understand or believe it when I told him I wasn't like that. That I was happy to coast. To drift and summersault like a dried-out leaf in the late fall, hoping to avoid the rake, the collecting pile, the compost heap.”

“When I got close to him, he smelled clean and steamy, like a late June-rain. And I was reduced to a ridiculous, blubbering pile of melting Jell-O. Criminy.”

“I wanted him to think about me as much as I thought about him. I wanted him to miss me when I wasn't around, like I missed him. I wanted him to want me like he'd never wanted anyone else, the way that I wanted him. I wanted for him to never be able to get enough of me, as I seemed not to be able to get enough of him.”

“I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat.Me: "Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?”

“He liked me to help him when he did things. He explained what I didn't know, warned me when to stand aside, never told me to get out of his way because he could do it faster, and thanked me for helping. There were moments when he needed me to rescue him, and he never blamed me for it, or got angry about it.”

“You were gullible," he said. And then, "When you were really little, you hated carrots. You wouldn't eat them. But then I told you that if you ate carrots, you'd get X-ray vision. And you believed me. You believed everything I said." I did. I really did. I believed him when he said that carrots could give me X-ray vision. I believed him when he told me that he'd never cared about me. And then, later that night, when he tried to take it back, I guess I believed him again. Now I didn't know what to believe. I just knew I didn't believe in him anymore.”