I quietly unlock the door.
I spend so much time here but almost never
without my grandfather.
During the day, the workbench is a mess
of different tools,
shiny screws,
books filled with instructions.
But at night, we put every single screw
back in just the right place.
Jars of screws big as your finger and tiny as a flea
set in perfect rows along the wall.
Before my mom went to the hospital,
she told me that sometimes we have to make hard choices,
the kinds that grate against your gut,
that hurt, but you still know
they’re the right thing to do.
You have to try,
have faith,
even if you don’t always know what will happen.
What if I bring
the whole jar of healing clay
to Malia?
If that clay can help her even for a little while,
we should use it.
What do we have to lose?
Is it just supposed to be in a box forever?
This must be one of those hard choices,
because my stomach hurts thinking about taking the jar
even though everything in me
says it’s right to help a friend.