Lola hugs us both,
then makes her way up the path.
Malia takes off the Jem wig,
closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out.
I like fall so much, she says.
Cooler air helps my skin.
Sometimes my parents
say we should move to Hawaii.
Lola says the Philippines,
anywhere with trade winds
where there’s water in the air.
I reach into my backpack,
pull out the jar of clay.
That one is way darker! Malia points to the jar.
This one is from Prague.
It held the clay
that made the golem.
Malia’s eyes get wide.
Do you have clay for everything?
There’s not enough here.
Actually, when my dad was
a kid, some other kids
were bothering him,
calling him mean names
because he is Jewish
and my grandparents weren’t
from America.
She squints her eyes. I know all about that.
My dad was so mad, he took the clay
from my grandfather’s box
and he tried to say the right prayers
and make the golem
like in all the stories.
Malia gulps, looks around.
Did it? You know?
No, I say. Well, he made it,
but then it rained,
and all the clay washed down
and drained out to the sea.
She walks over and lifts the jar
out of my hand.
She just undoes the metal latch
on the top
and the air escapes with a POP.
We both try to look into the jar;
we almost bonk our heads.
We hold it in the light
but we can’t see anything.
We smell it,
and it’s the smell
of the earth,
something familiar
but far away,
like a good smell on the wind
that is there and gone again, like an earthquake.