Meghan McClure
Sketches of Everything Except You

He leans against the wall outside my daughters’ school. His camo pants worn soft and thin at the knee and hem. His camo tee shirt looks new and is crisply tucked into the waist of the worn pants, cinched together with a belt the color of a long desert road. His brown boots aren’t new, but buffed to resemble something like new. I wonder what he’s trying to blend into. What he’s trying to hide from. He looks up and catches me in a soft stare meant for you.At the library, I pull into the only spot I can find, right next to the mostly blue truck. Rust edges its door panels, creeping inward. It seems to always be sunny on the days when I collect these sketches of everything except you, these things that fill in the background and leave an empty spot that almost looks like you.

All those years I spent in libraries. And you never came along. Remember the house when we were finally in a place safe enough to walk to everything without a parent? You’d go bowl, and I would sit in the library, reading, until it was dusk and stopped being as safe to walk home. I’d go to find you at the bowling alley and end up walking home alone.

His jaw looks like it has been set hard since birth, skin stretched taut along his bone, teeth clenched against other teeth. There is no room for the softness of tongue or cheek. There is not even stubble on his chin or above his lip. No spot missed with the razor he probably replaces every time. No nick of red anywhere, except for the small veins in his eyes that hint at squinting or rubbing or crying.

I smile at him in a way that says, “Remember the tree house our dad built us in the greenbelt? The one that probably wasn’t safe or legal, but we climbed up barefoot and took turns using the walkie-talkie to interrupt the neighbors’ phone calls?” I smile a story at him because I want the hard line of him to curve. But we don’t share a dad and maybe he’s never done anything barefoot, so his chin stays hard and clenched.

The edge of it reflects the sun, which is only just now burning through the haze. The logo is red and blue, the pull tab is missing, snapped off. The creases where it’s been crushed almost look like the imprint of a hand. But maybe it was a boot that crushed it into the cement. It bends in the middle, doubled over like it’s been punched in the stomach. This empty can of beer conjures a tenderness in me that wasn’t there before.

Memories are like that. Tender in a way that didn’t exist when it happened.

This one is across the apples from me at the farmer’s market. His beard is rusty, not red, but not quite brown. The thick, wiry hair curls a little at the ends, and he scratches his chin through it with one hand while the other finds the right apples. The bill of his baseball cap is pulled back just a little now that he’s not on the road, in what I assume is a truck, driving into the autumn sun. Now that I look again, his beard matches the heirloom tomatoes I’ve moved on to. He’s at the eggs, and I want to know how many he buys, does he cook them himself, does he eat them scrambled the way mom made them on the weekends?

I turn away to pull my own almost-rusty hair into a ponytail and when I turn back, he’s gone. He’s just like you.

The mechanic’s hands are creased with black grease, and his nails are short and raw around the edges. He probably goes home and scrubs them, not until they are clean, but until they won’t leave black fingerprints all over the house. Maybe he tries to keep the house free of reminders of his work, a thing separate and clean.

Your nailbrush always sat on the edge of the sink. White plastic handle and white bristles stained grey. When you’ve worked, it’s been with your hands. I could go on: thick calluses, black oil under fingernails, grease caked between fingers, cracked nails, burn scars across knuckles, split palms.

Does he run his hands over the body of his work at the end of his day? Have you ever done that?

I kick at the memory of you like a tire. Checking to see that it’s solid enough. It never is.

The flier is stiff with age and re-drying after the rains come rushing down the rough wood electrical pole it is stapled to. The picture of the missing person is in black and white and indistinguishable, like it’s been re-copied too many times. I wouldn’t know how to identify whoever it is, but suddenly, I want to. I want to take to the streets in search of this person. I want to call their family with good news. I want to take the flier