We open the shop.
Screws and metal pieces
are scattered across the floor,
every cup is spilled.
The window is unbroken
but the trophies and medals
are piled on the floor,
shelves turned over,
broken, flat.
I see the treasure box
perfectly together
like an island
in a rough sea.
The Agbayanis help my grandfather
sit in his big chair near the back.
He grabs Mrs. Li’s hand.
Your store?
Then so many things happen
all at the same time.
Mrs. Li goes outside,
looks at her store,
where the wood shelves
full of fruit have given way
and apples fill the street.
Mr. Agbayani tries the phone,
but the lines are all busy.
Malia folds her arms around her body.
I’m sorry about Blankie, I say.
She looks at me with something like a smile.
Our bikes! she says. And your notebook?
I picture everything buried
beneath a fallen ceiling.
I wish I had my green stone.
We feel for the ghosts of things
that once made us feel safe.