What Things Are Made Of

Where Are You Now, Sally Woodman,

5 Where Are You Now, Sally Woodman, who won the spelling bee with centrifugal— who sang in church choir, and brought the most canned goods for starving Africans? You sat behind me from second to sixth grade, let me use your scissors when mine broke, tore pages from your notebook when I left mine home, and when you had three Oreos, gave me two. Where are you, Sally, who handpicked my Valentine, while I pulled yours from the Value Pac Mom bought for the whole class? Where is your bobbed blonde hair, your eyes’ morning-glory blue, your skin—porcelain Mom called it—that burned pink if I said “Hi”? Where are you, fresh and cheerful as the Holsum Maid on our milk boxes—much better for me than Kimi Kidsen, I saw clearly when she gave back my dog tag, and I whiffed three times in a playoff game— better by miles than Candy Sanders, who swished her ponytail and wiggled hips as straight as mine, scattering smiles like pink balloons among the boys. When, shaking worse than with the flu, I gasped, “Will you be my May Fete partner? Please?” Candy chirped, “I’m sorry—Tommy asked first,” meaning Tommy Tucker, who couldn’t keep a beat if it was welded to his head, let alone sing for his supper, but rode his chopped Ducati in high hoodlum style. Back I dragged to my sad desk, where Sally—blue eyes cast down—must have seen my spilled guts coiling on the ground, must have known I knew she’d be 6 my partner if I asked her to. “Why can’t you love what’s good for you?” I call down through the cruel years, and hear my voice from way back then call, “Why can’t you?” ...