I hold the bag of pomegranates from the bottom.
The paper is about to rip.
Every time I’ve made a delivery
it’s been during the week,
so her parents must have been at work.
Today I notice shoes I haven’t seen at the door,
and sandals, and a walking stick
leaning against a bench.
The pineapple doorknob turns as I walk up
and then the door
opens
wide.
A woman with long black hair
smiles at me, steam rising
from the cup in her hand.
I have to find a word to say.
Be polite. Make eye contact.
I want to reach for the green stone
in my pocket,
but I’m afraid the bag might break,
so I just hold it up in front of my face.
Good morning, what’s this? she says.
Her voice is kind.
Inside I see the living room
and the kitchen are connected into one giant room
with puffy couches, a TV, paintings over a fireplace,
and a wide stairway at the very end.
In the kitchen,
there’s an older woman reading at the counter,
but I don’t see Malia.
What’s your name?
But before I can try to answer,
I hear a voice from behind her.
ETAN! This is my mom!
Malia wraps her arms
around her mom’s waist and peeks out.
I can’t help but notice the bumps
like tiny scales spread
in broken patterns on her arms,
stopping and starting,
red, raw,
in between
brown patches
of smooth,
perfect skin.
Mom, this is Etan,
he’s bringing all the stuff from Mrs. Li.
Nice to meet you, Etan,
I’m Mrs. Agbayani, Malia’s mother.
She’s told us about you.
Would you like to come in?
Malia’s arms tighten
when her mom says this, and she slides
farther behind her.
I walk through,
slowly,
Malia staying
carefully behind her mom.
The kitchen smells like cooking oil, garlic, and
other spicy things.
You can put those on the table, Malia’s mom says.
Oh, and this is my mother, Malia’s Lola.
You can call her Lola, too.
I set the bag down on the counter.
Lola looks at me.
Kain ka na!
She takes some egg rolls
from the small pot on the stove
and puts them on a paper plate,
plops a spoonful of a red sauce in the center,
and slides it over to me.
That’s lumpia, Malia says. It’s the best food
in the universe. THE UNIVERSE.
There’s a sudden silence,
and I notice all eyes on me.
Try it, Etan! I take a bite.
I’ve had egg rolls before,
but this is different, crispier, saltier,
filled with meat and vegetables.
I take another bite,
and they start to talk again.
Don’t mind Lola, Malia says.
She prefers to speak Tagalog.
Lola smiles at me, reaches into the paper bag,
pulls out a pomegranate.
She says something to Mrs. Agbayani,
and then there’s a swirl
of words in Tagalog,
but I recognize the quick tone,
the frustrated breaths.
I know it well.
They are arguing.