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.