My grandpa is at his workbench now.
Mr. Dimitri is there with Mr. Cohen and Mrs. Li,
and they are drinking out of metal cups
that my grandfather keeps
for the most special occasions.
A small TV with its rabbit ears up
plays next to them.
I have seen these people
together like this my whole life,
and it’s a safe and steady thing.
My grandfather waves me over,
puts his arms around me,
my face burying into his chest.
I’m so tired.
I hear the soft vibrations
of their voices
saying my name,
holding me from every side,
and for the first time
all day,
I let go.
Mrs. Li gives me a cup of hot chocolate.
I let the steam warm my face.
They talk and watch the TV;
news reports cut back and forth
with cartoon pictures of the Santa Cruz Mountains
and the San Andreas Fault like a dark river.
People pointing to broken glass,
and streets curved and out of order.
Candlestick Park over and over
and the reporter talking about
“the game that didn’t happen.”
Each time they show it,
my grandfather holds me closer,
whispers in Hebrew
to me, to himself.
I pull away from his chest,
look at him closely,
the clay smeared dry on this throat.
I’m okay, he says. Your father, he’ll be okay, too.
I drink the hot chocolate
and rest there
until their voices,
strong voices I’ve heard
my whole life,
fold over me like a blanket,
and my eyes begin to close,
heavy with steaming chocolate
and thoughts of everything
that happened in a single day.
I feel myself
falling
asleep.