I go to the pool to clean my hands.
I kneel down, and when I do,
something moves in the earth,
like it’s just beneath us.
The water on the pool ripples
like giant raindrops falling,
only there is no rain.
Malia walks over to me.
Is it an earthquake?
But by the end of her question
it stops.
What do we do now?
I look around,
the stones,
the water,
the trees,
all look the same,
but Malia’s face so different,
like she’s suddenly more herself.
Wait! she says.
Do you think I can keep just a little bit of that clay?
I take the jar back out and unlatch it.
Malia takes a Tic Tac box from her pocket,
and we eat the last few orange Tic Tacs.
Then she fills the tiny, clear container
with clay until it’s dark.
Can you stay for a little while? Malia asks.
I need to get back
but I don’t want to be anywhere else.
We sit on the stones together.
She tells me how her dad
comes back from his ship tomorrow.
I tell her about the World Series.
Then there’s even more of a change.
I put my fingers to my face
because the swelling in hers has gone down.
She rubs her hands over her legs, her arms,
breathing deeply,
both us trying to feel
what is real.