For Malia

Sorry, I say to the door.

No response.

When I turn toward the road,

I see the fog is thickening.

Then I have an idea.

I take out the notebook

and carefully remove

the picture of the mailbox.

At the very top, I write, “For Malia.”

I stand the paper up between two shoes

that I think might be hers,

then I slip away.

 

 

I get to the road,

and hear the door open slowly.

Did you draw this?

I turn around and nod.

It’s good! My mom and dad built

that mailbox for me

when I was little.

They say I’m like a princess in a castle.

I walk back toward the door,

and she’s still behind it.

What else do you have in that little book?

 

 

She peeks her head out just a bit more,

and I can see her long black hair.

The skin around her eyes is scaly, too.

 

 

Do you want to sit down? She points to the porch.

I nod, and then

she sits on the floor,

still behind the door,

a barrier between us,

her body hidden

in the dark house.

I show her the notebook through the crack in the door,

the doodles inside

spinning on the pages.

Sketches of trees

and buildings in San Francisco,

a map of where

my mom’s hospital is,

baseball stats,

drawings of every

character in Star Wars.

I point to a big drawing

of Chewbacca and smile.

Oh, I love Chewie.

She lets out a Rawwwr,

and we laugh.

I feel my voice

in my throat,

the hum of the words

as they come together.

Silence made me forget

what I sounded like.