Waiting

Lola gives us each a slice of toast

with coconut jam spread across the top.

 

 

Malia sits with me on the porch,

waiting for my dad to come,

but Buddy has to stay by the mailbox.

 

 

I’m sorry Malia, I say.

It’s okay. You didn’t know.

There’s lots of things you don’t know about me.

I look at our pumpkin;

the small candle burns brighter.

She reaches over, punches me in the shoulder.

So if I do the talent show,

will you help me?

Can you maybe come over tomorrow?

I need an audience.

 

 

I think so, I say.

Do you think your mom will let me?

 

 

From far away I see the high headlights of the truck,

its engine loud on the quiet road.

Malia walks me to the mailbox,

sneaks in one more face lick from Buddy.

Who knows, she says, looking at her arm. Maybe the clay IS magic.