On a Monday
after school,
I ride my bike to Malia’s house,
and we go down to the Sitting Stones
with a pile of paper
and a bag of markers.
We spread out a blanket
and write secret invitations for Shabbat.
It’s nothing fancy,
a few words and a heart.
Do you think they will all come? she asks.
I think so, I say.
I hope.
My mom is calling everyone,
telling them not to tell my grandfather,
but she thought it would be good
to write these little notes
to let everyone know that it’s back on again.
After a while, we take a break.
Malia stretches her legs, sings a bit,
dances around the pool,
and I sketch in my new notebook.
Will both your parents come?
Malia?
But she doesn’t answer.
Malia?
She’s standing at the pool,
her mouth open,
finger pointing.
I run over to where she is,
and I start pointing, too,
because there,
on the quiet shore,
half-buried,
is a green stone.
It’s my bareket.
I walk over,
reach down
to pick it up,
but Malia grabs my hand,
Wait! She points to tiny tracks
in the mud, smudges, like rabbit paws,
rounded little impressions.
She looks at me in the eyes.
Do you think?
I don’t say anything,
just reach down
and pick up the stone.
It fits perfectly in my hand.
We look at the pool
and across it
into the depths of forest,
both of us looking for something
we hope is real.