I gaze through windows
at flickering lights,
and fires dying down
in the twilight sky.
It feels safe, warm
inside the car,
and Malia looks over at me,
whispers, Are you okay, Etan?
I am okay,
like something inside me,
some different strength
I didn’t know I had
is at work.
Yes, I say.
Good, because I am NOT okay.
I mean, I finally sing
and then the earthquake happens?
Silence, and then we smile.
Her parents, though,
are not smiling.
Her mom is crying,
she turns.
Malia. And then so many words in Tagalog.
Yes, Momma.
But she can’t seem to say anything,
her face turned down,
her father looking forward at the road,
until I see his shoulders soften.
Malia, he says, his words tight,
your singing was beautiful.