Are you okay Malia? I ask.
Fine. I’m fine.
She walks to the pool,
splashes water on her arm.
I kneel down at the edge of the pool.
Buddy lies down between us;
his brown-and-white head nestles into his paws.
I wanted to tell you about something that happened, I say.
I tell her about my grandfather,
about clay and ancient things,
how the scratch on my arm almost completely disappeared.
Maybe, I say, scooping the clay from the bottom of the pool,
lifting its reddish-brown gooeyness out of the water,
Maybe this can help you?
Maybe here,
where trees can talk,
the clay is magic, too.
She stares into the water,
and I notice that her blanket is lowered now, around her shoulders,
her face still swollen on the side.
I don’t know, Etan.
If there’s magic clay in the water,
how come I don’t know about it?
There have been ancient magical items
in my grandfather’s shop all these years, and I didn’t know.
What do I do? she asks.
Ummm, just something like this.
I take the clay in my hand,
and I splash it down on her arm,
but I miss and some of the clay splatters onto Buddy,
who yelps, repositions himself.
I try again, slowly this time.
I spread the clay in circles,
and I put one hand
over her heart and close my eyes.
I don’t know what to say,
so I recite the prayer for bread at Shabbat.
Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.
Nothing happens at first, but then,
Etan, she cries, it feels …
itchy ITCHY!
She grits her teeth, pushes her hair behind her ears.
I don’t know Etan, it’s reaalllly itchy.
Then, all at once, she plunges her arm into the pool
and circles it in the cloudy water.
By the time she takes it out,
Buddy gets up, starts to lick her arm,
and she giggles until anything that
was supposed to happen fades into the evening.