by Chris Baron
She tries to reach the middle of her back.
I walk over, but she waves me away,
smashes both hands into the water,
then SPLASH again, soaking Blankie.
She reaches deep into the pool,
pulls up handfuls of clay,
squeezes it
until it oozes between her fingers.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want any of this.
She drops her hands into the water,
watches the clay swirl in the cloudy wet.
That’s when I make the decision.
Hope
Sometimes I imagine
that the words in my mind
fall into my belly,
swim in my dark, empty insides.
But lately, even the dark places
seem to be filling up with enough light.
My words can’t hide anymore.
I have to go! I have to get back for services and
because if the Giants and A’s win,
they go to the Series.
Malia stands, rubbing her arms,
Blankie over her head like a lion’s mane
as we walk up the hill over to my bike.
What services? Malia asks.
Oh, it’s Yom Kippur, I say. It’s when we think about atonement,
all the bad things we’ve done.
Like a chance to make things right.
Grown-ups have to fast.
I don’t have to. Not yet.
Malia smiles. Sounds kind of nice.
I wave, pedal off.
She yells,
I am NOT drinking the tea!
Baseball Mitt
When I get home,
it’s almost time for services.
My father is on the couch in his Candy Maldonado jersey
with a shining bowl of peanuts and boxes of Cracker Jacks,
baseball cards
everywhere, his Louisville Slugger in his hand.
He throws me my mitt. It hits me in the chest.
Ow.
No time for ow!
Both games are on! Put on your mitt.
But Dad? I say. We promised Grandpa …
Services
When my grandfather comes to the door he’s dressed in white,
his face shining, his hand on his belly.
Ready for synagogue?
The meal and then Kol Nidre?
But we are not, and he can tell.
I suddenly feel hollow,
torn in half,
like we forgot something we were supposed to do.
My grandfather
looks at me,
looks at my father.
You promised.
Then louder. YOU PROMISED.
I know, Pop, but … NO, my grandfather yells.
This is Yom Kippur.
This is our time to make things right in our hearts,
and you keep watching baseball?
Your wife is away in a mental hospital
and you think being here is best?
And then, all at once, he starts coughing.
I get him some water.
He sips. Turns to my father.
This beautiful boy
needs to be back in shul.
It’s been long enough;
his bar mitzvah is coming!
What will we do?
My father hangs his head
and I know that look.
He’s searching for words
he can’t find.
This is who we are, my grandfather continues,
how we’ve stayed strong through everything that’s happened.
Don’t give up, not now.
What are we made of?
We do not give up.
My grandfather stands,
hands me his water glass.
It’s time for a change.
And he walks out.
Tears and Snot and Everything
I don’t understand everything about Yom Kippur,
but ever since I was little we dressed up,
went to services all together.
This is where I remember her the most,
the green eyes of my grandmother,
her checkered dress and fuzzy hat,
her strong hands around my cheeks.
I was so little,
but I can still feel them.
My father lets out deep breaths,
shoulders falling.
Etan, listen.
And I can’t help it,
maybe it’s the thought of my grandmother,
or the hole in the apartment where my mother should be,
or the thought of letting my grandfather down,
or maybe something holier or more sacred
that I don’t understand,
but I start to cry in a way that I haven’t for a while,
tears and snot and everything.
My father drops his mitt,
puts his arms around me until the tears stop.
I know, son, but he has to understand,
I mean … once in a liftetime!
But he knows it’s not just about baseball.
I just … since your grandmother died,
and now with your mom,
it’s hard for me to go to synagogue without them.
He holds me there,
and I hold him,
then we quietly watch the game.
By the time the sun is completely set,
the A’s are going to the World Series,
and the Giants have one more game.
When We Don’t Go
In the morning, my father is humming at the table,
but it’s not about the big game.
Instead I see his open prayer book.
Maybe we will go to services today.
It feels like we should go.
I want a chance to atone, to make things right,
to start again.
I sit down across from him.
He’s holding a photo in his hand.
It’s the three of us, standing at Fort Point
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.
The sun is shining, the water is bright blue behind the red bridge.
He looks up at me,
wet eyes and scraggly beard,
like he’s been stuck thinking for days.
I’m sorry, Etan.
And he takes my hand.
I’m doing my best. I promise.
One day soon we will go back.
I believe him.
Giants Win
Will Clark drives in the final run
with a single down the center.
My father sweeps me into his arms, spins me around!
All of Main Street dances shop to shop
waving pennants, streaming rolls of paper across streetlights.
Confetti popcorns into the air.
Firecrackers and sparklers crackle and shine like a parade.
The A’s verses the Giants, the battle of the bay, is about to happen!
A “Half-Open Door”
After a while, things calm down.
My grandfather isn’t back from services yet.
I ask my father if I can have a key to the shop and wait there
where it’s quieter.
He barely looks, just hands me the key.
Outside I see Mrs. Li weaving between
excited baseball people on the street.
She cleans pumpkin guts,
exploded tomatoes,
and smashed eggplant.
I unlock the door to the shop, grab the broom,
and I help sweep ruined fruit into compost buckets.
It takes forever, and it’s getting darker,
long after sunset now;
my grandfather must be coming back soon.
And even though the world
has become a baseball game,
I still have to go to school tomorro
w.
So much mess, Mrs. Li says.
Thank you, Etan. I stop sweeping. I look at Mrs. Li.
She’s always been here,
around us, our whole life.
She used to come sometimes to Shabbat, even Hanukkah.
Mr. Li came here with them all on the Calypso.
My grandfather told us that it was hard for him.
Angel Island was different for them.
Mrs. Li said they had a “half-open door,”
where they could see San Francisco
but had to wait for months to be free.
She sometimes talks about poems carved onto the wood walls
by people who had to stay for a long time,
and some who wished they hadn’t come at all.
I guess Mr. Li was one of them; he didn’t last long.
For Mr. Li,
there were too many ghosts.
Etan, how is Malia?
Worse, I whisper.
Mrs. Li looks at me, stops sweeping,
takes a deep breath,
walks over,
puts her hands
on my shoulders.
I can tell she understands
without needing me to explain,
like my mother would.
Her eyes shine in the streetlights.
What can we do for that girl?
Hard Choices
I quietly unlock the door.
I spend so much time here but almost never
without my grandfather.
During the day, the workbench is a mess
of different tools,
shiny screws,
books filled with instructions.
But at night, we put every single screw
back in just the right place.
Jars of screws big as your finger and tiny as a flea
set in perfect rows along the wall.
Before my mom went to the hospital,
she told me that sometimes we have to make hard choices,
the kinds that grate against your gut,
that hurt, but you still know
they’re the right thing to do.
You have to try,
have faith,
even if you don’t always know what will happen.
What if I bring
the whole jar of healing clay
to Malia?
If that clay can help her even for a little while,
we should use it.
What do we have to lose?
Is it just supposed to be in a box forever?
This must be one of those hard choices,
because my stomach hurts thinking about taking the jar
even though everything in me
says it’s right to help a friend.
The Unexpected Thing
But I can’t do it.
I can’t take the jar.
I stop at the workbench,
and that’s when something unexpected happens.
I see the treasure box on the shelf
is already open,
the lid lifted, the chains undone.
On the shelf above it
is a canvas bag already packed,
the jar of clay,
a note rolled up tied together with twine.
Here. From behind me,
my grandfather unzips my backpack.
It’s heavy, put it in here.
Grandpa?
He looks younger in his white clothes
but tired
from long hours at the synagogue.
You are right, Etan.
It’s been a long day of reflection.
This clay is part of a bigger story of who we are.
It should be for all people.
We—should be for all people.
When it didn’t work on your grandmother, I lost so much hope,
but each of us has their own story.
You have a chance to be the light, to help a friend.
This is what it’s for.
He smiles, puts the jar into my pack.
Mix it with the clay in the stream
and when you do, say the prayers you know,
think of good things,
your mother, this shop, your friend.
All should be well.
I turn
and his arms are around me.
Are We Golem?
That night before I go to sleep,
I open the notebook to a blank sheet.
I feel the scratch of my pen
against the rough page.
I draw the bubbling stream
pouring into the blue-green pool
near the Sitting Stones.
Then I draw a person, maybe Malia,
going into the water,
and when she comes out she’s a golem,
earth-colored, made of clay.
But that doesn’t seem completely right.
She’s not a creature.
And neither am I.
Like a Holiday
Etan, wake up.
It’s late.
My father nudges me.
I see his tired face, a giant bowl of cereal in his hands.
We both overslept.
C’mon, you’re gonna be late for school.
Sometimes when we’re late he gets mad,
but today he’s happy.
Don’t worry, he says. It’s like a holiday right now.
Game 1 is Saturday! Can you believe it?
Dad?
He takes a huge bite of his cereal.
Do you think Mom gets to watch the game?
He chews, swallows, smiles.
Of course she does.
He shows me the newspaper, the schedule of games,
starting this weekend.
But then I see the third game, one week away, on Tuesday.
The SAME EXACT day as the talent show!
I decide not to tell him yet.
Phone Call
The phone rings.
Etan, can you?
But he sees my face, remembers.
He leaps to the phone.
Hello? Hi, I know! I can’t believe it!
Silence as he listens, his face breaking into a smile,
and I know it’s my mother.
He looks at me.
Yeah. Yes. I will.
Then he says something so quiet
that I can’t hear him at all.
He calls me over. I put the phone to my ear,
whisper, Hello?
and listen to the delicate
sound of her voice
telling me
she’s coming home
soon.
Skipping School
I roll my bike out the front door,
my backpack heavy:
the notebook, granola bar,
jar of ancient, magic clay.
I’ve never skipped school before.
Maybe it’s because the world feels so different
or because of some magic
or change, or maybe it’s just the excitement
of seeing what might happen.
Today I have other things to do.
When I reach Malia’s house,
the fog is already melting away.
The dragon mailbox is wet with morning dew,
drops of water like slimy scales.
Lola is sitting on the front porch, a huge book in her lap.
She waves at me, gets up, goes inside.
By the time I reach the door,
Malia walks through,
Blankie wrapped fully around her,
a huge textbook in her arms.
Surprise Visit
Etan! Are you in trouble? Are you okay?
Why aren’t you in school?
She smiles, and I notice that she’s not hiding her face;
it looks a little less swollen.
I lean my bike against the porch, unload the heavy backpack.
I … I’m fine, I say.
She looks relieved.
I’m studying US states.
Did you know that Georgia is the home of Coca-Cola?
I mean, I can’t drink soda, but …
What’s in the backpack?
I lower it to the ground.
I feel so light, like I could fly away.
Can we go to the Sitting Stones? I say.
Now? she asks.
Yeah!
Lola! and she goes inside.
I walk up the steps.
Okay, she said yes,
but we have to eat first.
She gives us each a plate of chicken adobo
with rice and a fried egg.
I notice that Malia’s skin is red and cut in places,
but she isn’t scratching.
Maybe the tea is working.
We eat, and she tells me stuff about different states.
Did you know the Venus flytrap
is the official plant of North Carolina?
I bet it could eat our fingers off.
Down the Path
The trees are giants,
sentinels guarding the footpath,
different in the midday light.
Malia touches the trunk of each tree,
