Mrs. Agbayani races from the car
screaming, LOLA!
And we follow, LOLA!
I look up at Malia’s window
where the glass is broken,
wood sliding off in all directions.
We run to the back door
near the field,
the trees, the path
darkening beneath the clear sky.
Lola is there
sitting in an Adirondack chair
in the backyard,
a small candle burning
on a table next to her,
the phone pulled all the way
out from the living room.
In her lap, an old, gray photo album.
Of course, Mr. Agbayani grunts.
They run to hug Lola,
who quickly stands,
and then disappears inside with them.
But when she sees me,
she waves me over, too.
We roll a small TV out
from the living room
onto the back porch.
We move the antenna around,
find channel 7,
wavy-lined, staticky breaking news,
straight from Candlestick Park.
Peter Wilson, the reporter,
tries to describe what happened.
He holds his earpiece tight.
We’re hearing that the quake
was centered in South Bay
near the Santa Cruz Mountains.
That’s us, Mrs. Agbayani gasps.
We watch for a long time,
baseball fans huddled
behind the reporter.
I look for my dad.
Our eyes follow every scene.
Reporters argue if the game will go on—
if it should go on.
Fires burn in San Francisco.
Fire trucks rolling,
hydrants bursting water,
roads everywhere
cracked and broken,
and then we see it,
the Bay Bridge.
The two layers
intersect,
a piece of the top, split,
broken, falling down
into itself,
cars trapped underneath.
Malia puts her hand on my shoulder.
Your father is okay, Etan,
I know he is.
The reporter tells us
that people have been asked
to leave Candlestick Park
to return home in an “orderly manner.”
Malia walks to the edge of the field,
the path to the Sitting Stones
growing faint in the dying light.
She touches the tree.
I know she is listening.
What’s it saying, I ask her.
She looks at me,
slowly walks back,
whispers in my ear,
Everything.