Malia puts her hand on my foot.
I don’t feel like the creature any more.
Because you never were! I say.
Remember you asked me
what I am made of?
I feel my face redden.
It was a good question, Etan.
I just want to say thanks.
I think part of me feels
like it’s made of clay,
the old clay and the new clay from the river,
and my Lola’s adobo,
and my grandfather’s dragon mailbox,
and your drawings.
All of it all together.
Malia can say everything
on her mind all at once.
Are you ready? I say.
She looks around the room.
Almost, she says.
She unwraps the scarf
from around her head,
takes off her glasses,
her swollen eye partially closed,
that side of her face,
a little red from the eczema.
She breathes deeply.
When we go in, will you hold Blankie?