Mr. Agbayani can tell I feel nervous,
so he assures me that my father
must be fine.
He asks me lots of questions
about baseball,
kosher food,
earthquakes,
the Calypso,
being Jewish,
about whether the plan
was mine or hers,
and then, at last,
just as we pull through back roads
onto Main Street
he asks me,
his voice suddenly wobbly and quiet:
When this all calms down,
and things, you know,
get put back together,
what do you think?
Will Malia be okay
at school?
I’m so used to saying nothing,
used to searching for words
deep in my belly
or having them get stuck
in my throat,
that I’m surprised when they just appear.
She’s gonna be awesome,
Mr. Agbayani.
No one is like Malia.