She stops at each tree,
rests her forehead on the rough trunks,
whispers words in Tagalog.
So what are the trees saying? I ask.
She leans against one of them.
They say something big is coming.
That seems obvious.
Of course it is, I say. I mean the World Series, and …
Malia turns to me. No, dummy, trees don’t care about baseball.
It’s something else. These earthquakes …
it’s like the earth calling out, speaking a new language.
The trees are trying to understand it.
We slowly wind our way to where the Sitting Stones
sleep in the mist by the pool.
My words spill out.
I signed you up today for the talent show. Next Tuesday!
She sighs. Etan, look at me.
You think I am ready to get up in front of people?
I never go anywhere, not even school.
What was I thinking?
She walks to the pool and looks in,
her face shining in the wavy water.
Look at me.
I mean, I AM a creature.
She scratches her neck, and then her legs.
They start to bleed.
She tries to reach the middle of her back.
I walk over, but she waves me away,
smashes both hands into the water,
then SPLASH again, soaking Blankie.
She reaches deep into the pool,
pulls up handfuls of clay,
squeezes it
until it oozes between her fingers.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want any of this.
She drops her hands into the water,
watches the clay swirl in the cloudy wet.
That’s when I make the decision.