Mixing

Cool, Malia says, and kneels near the pool.

Here goes.

She dips both hands into the water,

scoops clay from the bottom, the water dripping from her hands

as she brings it over.

She scrapes the clay into the mouth of the jar,

and slowly,

something happens.

A light mist rises from inside.

We look at each other.

Probably just a temperature change, she says.

I take a pencil from my backpack, and carefully mix the clay together.

It feels like thick paste.

One clay is pale, milk colored,

the other almost red, like the tree bark.

We watch the colors swirl together,

but they don’t blend.

I put the jar on the stone.

Okay, arms first.

She puts her arms forward,

her left is redder, a little swollen.

I put my fingers into the jar.

It’s warm, probably from the mixing?

I lift them out,

then in one awkward motion,

trying NOT to let it fall to the ground,

I rub the clay onto her arms,

pressed between my palm and her forearm.

Smear it around!

I can’t tell if she’s crying, or laughing, she’s breathing so fast.

It’s hot. It feels hot.

I remember to pray, to think good thoughts,

my father singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,”

ice cream with my mother,

my grandfather’s shop,

Jordan stealing a base,

Buddy bouncing in his basket,

and Malia being my friend,

everything

all at once,

together,

as I smooth the warm clay over her arms.