Everywhere
people are fixing things
in window frames,
carrying boxes, sweeping,
and talking on the street,
the air thick with stories and tears.
We run across to the park,
step over the broken sidewalk
where I felt the first shake;
the cement is broken
in deep cracks.
The park is full of people,
blankets spread out
like a large patchwork quilt
across the grass.
Kids play in the bright sunshine.
It feels normal.
I take Buddy to the trees,
where he sniffs with all his might,
and we wander in the tree line
under twisty branches,
my mind wandering into the woods.
Etan?
I hear my name.
It sounds like my own voice
or a word far away
or maybe, I think,
it’s the trees
talking to me at last.
Etan?
It’s behind me.
I look,
then I see
she’s there,
long black hair
and bright sunlight
pouring through
her spirally curls.
Mom?
Buddy looks up,
and in one breath
I am in her arms.
She smells like
our apartment
and green apple shampoo.
Her body shakes.
She’s crying,
and I get nervous
because sometimes crying
like this used to mean
that she was really sad.
But when I pull away to look,
her face is a smile,
she’s laughing.
She wipes her eyes
on her sleeve.
I couldn’t wait to see you. She pulls me tighter.
Mom, I say, we were in the community center and …
I know, she says. I heard all about it.
We freeze in time talking without words.
C’mon, I brought us a whole carton of ice cream,
you can tell me all about it inside.
We wander home
talking about Malia and her singing,
and about how I caught a baseball
but nobody saw it.
Then, in the far corner of the playground
at the very top of the slide,
I see ballerina girl
standing with her arms
raised over her head,
Blankie tied around her neck
like a cape.
She launches down the slide
and into the arms of her mom.