by Chris Baron
that she was really sad.
But when I pull away to look,
her face is a smile,
she’s laughing.
She wipes her eyes
on her sleeve.
I couldn’t wait to see you. She pulls me tighter.
Mom, I say, we were in the community center and …
I know, she says. I heard all about it.
We freeze in time talking without words.
C’mon, I brought us a whole carton of ice cream,
you can tell me all about it inside.
We wander home
talking about Malia and her singing,
and about how I caught a baseball
but nobody saw it.
Then, in the far corner of the playground
at the very top of the slide,
I see ballerina girl
standing with her arms
raised over her head,
Blankie tied around her neck
like a cape.
She launches down the slide
and into the arms of her mom.
Small Gifts
At the apartment we eat bagels
with lox and cream cheese.
My father takes a huge bite,
talks with his mouth full.
It’s going to get really busy.
But we will need to start
with our own building.
I was thinking, Etan,
that maybe some of the kids
in your school might want a little job
a few hours after school,
cleaning up, helping out?
I could pay them ten bucks a day?
I nod, look at my mom,
and when she nods back
I feel the filling up
of a space
that’s been empty.
After we eat,
I go to organize my own room.
My box of Star Wars figurines
spilled off the shelf,
and my comic books are mixed
in a pile, some flipped all the way over.
Drawings floated to the ground,
dots of tape
still stuck
to the wall.
Etan. Mom comes in.
She sits at the edge of my unmade bed
and smooths the blanket. Sit?
She hands me a small, thin package
covered in newspaper.
Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap it.
I weigh it in my hands.
A spiral bound notebook,
the kind with thick paper
and a hard cover like a real book.
I love that you kept our notebook
with you all the time.
It reminded me of how much love
there is for me in the world.
I realize how much I want
to ask her the question,
how much I don’t.
I flip the notebook cover
back and forth between my fingers.
Mom,
are you
going to
stay?
Her body shifts, and she wipes her eyes.
Yes. I’m staying, Etan. I’m here now.
May I? and she takes the notebook,
opens to where a paper is slipped inside,
and pulls it out.
My picture of the river.
I think we can add all new stuff,
but this one is my favorite,
the blues and greens, the river of words
flowing down all the time.
Have your words come back, Etan?
I think mine have.
Maybe we don’t have to be afraid anymore.
Rivers are constantly being refilled
and new water comes just as the old
water floats away to the sea.
Then she looks at me.
Sorry I’m so serious all the time.
That’s okay, I say.
I missed it so much.
I missed you so much, I want to say.
Well, how about this? she says.
Do you know where fish keep their money?
I look at her confused, she’s already smiling.
Innnn river banks.
I try not to laugh.
She’s told me this joke
so many times.
Then we kneel down
and clean up the action figures
and markers,
laughing the whole time.
Rebuilding
Big trucks roll through town
with spools of wire,
long pieces of wood, metal pipes;
men and women with hard hats
chatter through walkie-talkies.
My father makes lists.
Mr. Cohen’s bakery needs the windows reinforced.
Mrs. Li needs the frame of her shop built back up.
The school needs windows replaced.
Mrs. Hershkowitz needs new bookshelves.
The kitchen needs rewiring.
We’re building the town again,
making everything new,
everyone working together.
A Gift and a Promise
I stop at Mr. Cohen’s bakery,
get a bagel and coffee for my grandfather.
I pause in the alley
to see all the names of the Calypso.
I take a napkin from the bag,
clean the dust out of the initials,
tiny patterns in the brick.
My grandfather is at his workbench
like always. Only this time,
instead of fixing something
he is sorting
through the treasure box.
Oy, good. You’re here.
Good morning, Grandpa.
You are cheery today. Good!
Lots to be happy about these days, right?
When something bad happens,
even an earthquake,
it’s a chance for a real miracle to happen.
I look at him.
We get to see what we are made of?
Exactly!
He sorts through the box,
a frame,
an old photo,
a silver chain
on one side,
the empty jar of clay from the Vltava River,
the knife,
more colored stones
on the other side.
Slowly he slides this pile
toward me.
Really? I ask.
Yes, he says. You are almost thirteen,
you should have some of these things,
but I have one condition.
Go back to synagogue.
Spend time with Rabbi Rosenthal.
I nod, take the knife from the sheath,
hold it against the light.
Then I hold the jar of clay;
it’s lighter than the jar
that held the clay
from the Dead Sea.
I weigh it in my hand.
It’s old, he begins, much older than anything else.
An artifact of our family,
something you should have now.
Do you think if I mix it with the clay
in the pool
I could make a golem?
There’s not enough clay in there to make a golem.
Besides, Etan, I’m not sure the golem
has a place in this world anymore.
Still, having this will always connect
you to the old world
like a bridge, to remind you
of where you came from
and who you are,
and that anything is possible.
I close my hand around it.
I’ve held on to it for too long, he says,
like the shape of a memory long gone by.
But now I know.
What, Grandpa?
He looks through the window,
down at his coffee,
back at the photograph of the Calypso.
He holds one of the photos from the box.
It’s the people.
They are what connect us.
The things we do
and remember together
that matter most. Not the clay.
And that’s when I have an idea,
and I know I have to tell Malia
right away.
Back to the Forest Path
I grab an old backpack
with the treasures
from my grandfather
and set out for Malia’s house.
It feels good to ride up Forest Road.
My legs feel strong.
I see families outside
beneath redwoods,
the occasional truck
on the road clearing
fallen branches.
The dragon mailbox is there,
and I coast into the driveway,
empty of cars.
No shoes—just collapsed
broken boards, piled together.
Malia’s window is boarded up
with a big X made out of tape,
and the X is there on other broken boards
and parts of the house.
I know from my father
that these are the places
they need to fix first.
I go around to the back door.
Knock, but no answer.
Where could she be?
Near the forest path
at the edge of her yard
the redwood branches
bend in the breeze.
At first I hear the quiet creak
of the bending branches,
then something else—
a voice, a song,
the trees are talking to me!
But the song sounds familiar.
It’s “Time After Time.”
The Song
I run down the path;
Malia’s song flitters
through the trees,
and finally I see the pool,
and the Sitting Stones,
and I notice that Malia
is not alone.
Concert
Malia stands on top
of one of the stones.
She’s holding a stick
like a microphone,
and she’s wearing her pink Jem wig.
She’s singing with all heart,
because on another Sitting Stone
is Lola.
Her body sways back and forth,
her hands full of tissues,
a private concert just for her.
I wait until the song fades
and clap from the path.
Really Okay
Etan! Malia leaps off the stone
and hugs me so hard
it actually hurts.
Lola couldn’t come to the show,
so I wanted to give her
a real concert.
Malia scratches the skin
on her neck
and her arms the whole time.
I can’t help but look.
What are you staring at? She smiles,
punches my shoulder.
Sorry, I say.
It’s okay, Etan, it comes and goes.
I’m really okay right now.
My cousins in the city
said that their whole building
was swaying just like this,
and that EVERYTHING came off their walls.
My parents are working overtime,
my dad is in Santa Cruz,
and my mom is in the city.
They say the hospitals are overflowing,
that lots of people
were hurt in the earthquake.
I look at her, nod,
but I can’t contain it.
My mom is back.
She stops swaying,
stops scratching,
and hugs me tight.
Lola looks over.
Unearthing
Lola hugs us both,
then makes her way up the path.
Malia takes off the Jem wig,
closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out.
I like fall so much, she says.
Cooler air helps my skin.
Sometimes my parents
say we should move to Hawaii.
Lola says the Philippines,
anywhere with trade winds
where there’s water in the air.
I reach into my backpack,
pull out the jar of clay.
That one is way darker! Malia points to the jar.
This one is from Prague.
It held the clay
that made the golem.
Malia’s eyes get wide.
Do you have clay for everything?
There’s not enough here.
Actually, when my dad was
a kid, some other kids
were bothering him,
calling him mean names
because he is Jewish
and my grandparents weren’t
from America.
She squints her eyes. I know all about that.
My dad was so mad, he took the clay
from my grandfather’s box
and he tried to say the right prayers
and make the golem
like in all the stories.
Malia gulps, looks around.
Did it? You know?
No, I say. Well, he made it,
but then it rained,
and all the clay washed down
and drained out to the sea.
She walks over and lifts the jar
out of my hand.
She just undoes the metal latch
on the top
and the air escapes with a POP.
We both try to look into the jar;
we almost bonk our heads.
We hold it in the light
but we can’t see anything.
We smell it,
and it’s the smell
of the earth,
something familiar
but far away,
like a good smell on the wind
that is there and gone again, like an earthquake.
Mix
Malia dips her finger in.
What if we mix it? she says.
I mean, what if we just take
the clay from the pool,
pour some of it into the jar,
say all the stuff?
I don’t think you can just do that, I say.
Why not?
I don’t know. You just … I mean …
But why not. Isn’t that the point? she persists.
We walk over to the pool,
kneel down,
and Malia cups water in her hands,
lets it fall gently into the jar.
Like it’s some kind of ceremony.
C’mon, little golem,
if you can hear me,
come out and be free.
The sound of her voice
is like every ounce of this is true.
When the jar is full, we look at it.
Full of water, perfectly still,
a tiny reservoir at the top.
What do we do now? she asks.
Well, I say, if we were making a real golem,
we would need to place a prayer inside it,
and then we would give it a mission.
No problem! I’ve got it!
She walks over to my backpack,
finds a pencil and paper,
looks at the trees,
feels some dirt between her fingers,
quickly scribbles something down.
Here’s the prayer.
I take the paper,
roll it into a tiny scroll,
slip it into the jar.
Now … we need a mission.
We think for a while,
>
I know, says Malia.
Little golem, can you find
Etan’s important green rock
and bring it back to us?
I laugh. My bareket?
It would be nice
to have that again.
The Last of the Clay
We tilt the jar together,
let it spill out into the pool,
mostly mud-colored water
with some clay mixed in,
making ripples on the surface.
Clouds of clay
burst in the water
and slowly sink away.
The Empty Jar
It’s still a rad jar, she says.
What will you do with it?
I don’t know.
Maybe I can keep some clay from here?
Maybe since we’ve mixed
so much together
all of it is magical now?
Malia reaches into the water,
away from where
it starts to flow into a stream,
comes back with a handful
of goopy mud.
We pry it off her hand into the jar,
then close the latch.
Her Idea
Malia scratches her neck
while we walk back up.
You know, I think I’m
going to try going back to school.
I stop.
Don’t look so surprised.
I can’t stay home forever.
She scratches her arm,
and I notice her eye
just a bit puffed out.
It’s okay, Etan, my mom always
says one day at a time,
and I think I finally believe her.
I can do it.
I really can,
and besides …
We keep walking.
Besides what? I say.
She looks at me, rolls her eyes.
I have at least one friend now.
In the Kitchen
The small TV blares