My father turns the Giants game on the car radio.
The announcer is talking about
the Giants’ chances of beating the Cubs,
winning the National League,
Making it all the way.
My father looks at me.
So, how was your day?
You sure were late.
I feel all the words about Malia
rush from my stomach
to my throat,
but instead I push them down
because I also think about
my mom, and Jordan,
and it’s too hard,
so I say nothing.
Can you at least talk to me about it?
He raises his voice a little, his hands thump
against the steering wheel slightly.
I can tell he’s frustrated.
My father turns onto our little street.
The fog is lighter now,
and the moon is slicing
through the sky.
Look, Etan, I know it’s hard.
It’s hard for me, too.
Your grandpa thinks
we should talk to the rabbi.
There’s no way I’m going to,
but maybe … maybe you should?
I quietly breathe deep breaths,
imagine Jordan’s room
filled with Rickey Henderson posters
and baseball trophies,
comics spread out
across his floor.
Maybe I could just call him,
but today everything feels like too much.
My mom tells me
that some days are like that.
I am all out of words,
so instead I reach for my father’s hand
and he puts it around me,
and we watch the moon
shining through the fog.