I open my eyes because it feels
like I am falling
or the ground is shaking.
I grab onto the chair,
my grandfather’s big brown chair.
I’m in it. There’s a blanket on me.
The world is not shaking.
Light, sunlight
through the windows of the shop,
the smell of coffee, the low hum
of my grandfather’s voice
and someone else’s.
I rub my eyes.
Did it really happen?
What day is it?
Then my body tightens
and I remember everything.
Plaster and glass and the ballerina
and everything breaking apart
and the image of the Bay Bridge.
And I hide under the torn blue blanket,
pull it tight around my head.
You’re awake!
The muffled voice,
the hand on my shoulder
peeling back the blanket,
and I feel my whole body lift,
swing in the air,
my body wrapped tightly
around his
like I am five years old,
my head buried in his shoulder,
the smell of earth and wood dust,
the smell of my father.
He’s holding me
and I start crying
and I can’t stop.