I grab an old backpack
with the treasures
from my grandfather
and set out for Malia’s house.
It feels good to ride up Forest Road.
My legs feel strong.
I see families outside
beneath redwoods,
the occasional truck
on the road clearing
fallen branches.
The dragon mailbox is there,
and I coast into the driveway,
empty of cars.
No shoes—just collapsed
broken boards, piled together.
Malia’s window is boarded up
with a big X made out of tape,
and the X is there on other broken boards
and parts of the house.
I know from my father
that these are the places
they need to fix first.
I go around to the back door.
Knock, but no answer.
Where could she be?
Near the forest path
at the edge of her yard
the redwood branches
bend in the breeze.
At first I hear the quiet creak
of the bending branches,
then something else—
a voice, a song,
the trees are talking to me!
But the song sounds familiar.
It’s “Time After Time.”