Lines of fire trucks
peel down the street,
create a wall of spinning lights,
red metal against the sky.
No power.
We push against families making their way outside,
toward the front of the rec center.
Every light fell from the ceiling,
fluorescent bulb glass
and metal wires webbed
across turned over chairs.
Momma! Malia screams.
I try to yell, but nothing comes,
and then I see my grandfather.
He’s still in his chair.
Mr. Agbayani is kneeling next to him.
Just breathe, Jacob, breathe.
But he’s coughing,
like all the dust in the air
went straight down his throat.
Mrs. Agbayani is talking
to a mother and daughter;
Mrs. Li walks a woman by the arm.
We rush to the front.
Mr. Agbayani throws his arms around
his daughter, looks her in the eye.
Can you get water? She runs off.
Etan … my grandfather coughs. You’re all right, he says.
Etan, he grabs my wrist,
squeezes with all his strength,
and I feel his hand closing
around my arm
like he might never let go.