Ode to a Nobody

by Caroline Brooks DuBois

Leaves are people too. And trees. And bees.

Trees are just there. Like birds. Like air. Except this one, snuggled up close to my house, its branches stretching and reaching and tap tap tapping its tree fingers against my pane in the spring wind, like a friend come to rescue me from them and all their yelling downstairs.

The feel of board under feet isn’t cutting it, giving me the usual boost and grounding me to something other than me. I prop it next to my front door, sink down to sitting on the porch— not ready to enter— and pull a piece of notebook paper from my bag. The pencil feels kinda just-right in my hand. And by that— I mean I feel just a little capable.

Inside our broken home, we don’t know how broken the outside world is.

My dogwood—its buds still waiting to bloom, the notched-petal flowers that signal summer is coming, that I’ve survived another year of school—is totally uprooted and lying on its side. I look up to my bedroom window, and back down at the tree that was as old as me. I swallow a sob that begins somewhere deep in my chest.

Houses spill themselves into yards, cough their curtains out their windows as if they’ve grown tired of their people:

I smile at this dude talking about nests and eggs— but I like his different way of seeing things.

It’s weird how people dropped all these bottles. Maybe because everything is already such a wreck. A few more bottles won’t hurt. But it’s something that’s fixable, when so much isn’t.

It’s been a week since the tornado struck. I swear time has crawled. It could be the lack of electricity in our busted home, or moving to Ivy— days of doing things I’ve never done, and all the time spent offline. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe it’s the truce between Mom and Dad. But I’ve changed a lot in the span of this “week-year.”

“You know, Quinnie, it’s okay to be sad when bad things happen. Social media—and friends— might tell you it’s all good. But it’s okay if it’s not.”

“Keep writing. It’s a safe place for everything you’re feeling. Writing lets you sneak up on the sad stuff.

Stay strong. We survived! Hold that vibe. Hear the song Of lives resuming And hope blooming.

We, houses, are more than a place to hang a hat and park a car. We measure our lives in families—and I’d found mine.

“words are not nothing. They are everything. In fact, words save lives.”

I wouldn’t have noticed these as songs—if it weren’t for this poetry project, which is changing everything— even the very composition of me.

I feel more like a new Quinn than Nobody when I’m painting my poem this time.

The differences between Jack and Ian make me feel something I can’t explain—like crying and laughing tumbled together, and like everything I’ve ever known is about to change.

I’m afraid to want it, but I want to be a writer—

Maybe writing could be my expertise. I’ve begun to feel more like Quinn than Quinnie or Quinn(ie) when I’m writing, like a better, more capable me.

I’m learning that sometimes an object is more than an object— more like our feelings about an object or memories attached to it.

This storm story will have a happy ending: Neighbors helping. Hearts mending. —Nobody

Why must we always be sweet? We could be Home Melancholy Home. Home Embarrassed Home. Home Nostalgic Home. Home Resilient Home. Home Hopeful Home. Maybe we are all of these behind our facades.

I wonder about the voids in my life’s story and if they’re too deep to be filled.

I’m a nobody too. Matter of fact, my whole school is filled with nobodies.” I laugh at a word that might sound like a put-down but right now sounds like a club I want to belong to.

I might tell you that houses are more than walls, ceilings, floors, and doors, that families breathe life into us and move through us like blood through a heart. People also say Home is where the heart is. But sometimes people pack their stuff, drive away, and never come back. And do you really want to hear that? I might tell you that hearts can change—and when that happens, you have to change too—and it’s hard.

Nature keeps throwing her own little party, regardless of the state of her guests. She brings colorful gifts— and the promise of future storms.

(I can’t stop writing and thinking and dreaming in similes and metaphors.)

Don’t let life tell you who you are. I don’t have to be the best, like Forrest. I just have to be me. And I’m enough. Choose a path—and do what it takes to walk it, even when it hurts.

Tornados happen. So does divorce. But there’s a lot more to do with choices—with doing. Volunteering and helping my neighborhood, with writing—that’s when I saw myself clearly. That’s when I became who I’m going to be.

I stare at him, unsure how to help. I was just writing about how you can’t always help, even when you really, really want to. Ms. Koval has taught me that listening is often the best gift. Without saying anything,

Maybe the story of a house is the story of people and families coming and going, and growing and changing, of wrecks and divorces and tornados. My family does not live together in one house now. And I am not the same person I was before. People say home is where the heart is— but it’s more complex than that when the where is spread between places. And one day, I will not live in this house anymore. Maybe the story of a house is simply the story of relationships.

You taught me to slow down, to tune in, to observe, to write, to think, to choose, to appreciate. You showed me my talents. You changed me. You scarred my home— but in some ways I am stronger. I am more than before.