We walk down a path,
slow and winding.
I hear water, a small stream,
at the bottom
where water spills into a small pool,
before it rushes on.
Large stones rest on the banks.
This is my favorite spot. She looks around.
These are the Sitting Stones.
This is where the trees listen the most.
The pool is magical.
We sit on the rocks and she hums.
She holds the pomegranate up to her nose and breathes deeply.
I try to see the magic in the pool
as bugs skim across its surface
and the sunlight glimmers on the water.
Malia walks to the edge, dips her hand in,
lets the water filter through her fingers.
I’m not even supposed to go in water.
It dries my skin.
But this water is magic.
She stands and twirls so the blanket flies.
One day, I will come here
and wash away all the bad skin.
Sunlight streams
to the bottom of the pool.
It’s not very deep, and it’s clear.
I put my hand down to the bottom.
It’s clay. All clay.
I pull up the wet goop, and Malia steps back, laughing.
It’s not THAT magical.
Better not get any on me.
I think about my grandfather
and the old treasure box in his shop
and the jars of magic clay from the Dead Sea
and the Vltava River.
Is all clay the same?
Why is this clay any different?
I let the clay drip from my fingers,
wash off the rest in the cool water.
This stream comes all the way
from the mountains where they once found gold,
and then it flows all the way
into the sea. It’s a very old stream.