Searching

When my niece tells me she wants to be a scientist 
when she grows up, I respond—because of the whole science 

and girl thing—with so much enthusiasm, immediately  
asking what kind of science—she’s five; I figure she’s

got it all planned out. Plain science, she says, only I hear plane 
science as in vortex, wing span, and Newton’s many laws;

spacecrafts and the moon (surely there’s a moon in her future). 
Meanwhile, her brother, two years younger, darts around

the playroom—bookcases, play tables, overstuffed chairs— 
like he’s a fish in some lucky kid’s aquarium loaded

with ceramic caves, Roman ruins, ancient shipwrecks. 
I’m here! he shouts. Over here! His only need: to be found.

My niece says again: plain science, a trace of sadness now 
on her face, disappointment. The way I imagine Jesus

might have looked all those times the disciples failed to grasp 
his teachings. Just last week, a boy in my Sunday school class

announced that his dog is half greyhound. Of course 
I asked about the other half; the boy looked blank, a little sad,

and said: There is no other half. My niece scans the room, 
like she’s searching for something she can’t yet name,

before delivering a new word—a gift—with the gentle 
determination of a priest placing a communion wafer

into the outstretched hand of a parishioner: Regular, she says. 
Regular science. She’s here, on the ground, wanting only

to be heard, while her brother tries his hardest to be found— 
among caves, castles, treasure chests. I’m right here, he says.

 I’m right here.