“Uh-huh,” I reply. Then my tongue sticks in my mouth. I am not sure what to say next.

My father reaches out one long finger to tap it against one of the marbles. It’s a medium-sized brown marble with a slightly pitted surface.

“Not this one,” he says.

He’s right. That marble is one that I won in a game with Galuloi and Ugama. At the end the three of us came out even, but that brown marble was one Ugama made. The shortest and roundest of my friends, he is also the fastest runner. But, though his speed is certainly a gift, his lack of patience is not. Whenever he fires his marbles, he always does it in such haste that some always end up either breaking or being imperfect like this one.

But that does not upset him. “It doesn’t matter if the marbles I make are not as good as yours, Uwohali,” Ugama sometimes says, a big grin on his round face. “Sooner or later I will win all of your marbles from you.”

I smile as I remember that remark of his. Especially because I know it will never prove to be true.

My father nods at that smile of mine. “You won it from a friend and you are thinking of him right now,” he says.

I nod.

“It is good to have friends,” he says.

He picks up one of the marbles from my hand, the one I like the best. It is a milky blue color and almost as smooth as glass.

“Well made,” my father says. “Are you good at making things?”

This time my voice does not fail me. “I like to make things, but I am not that good. I would like to learn how to be better. I am interested in learning.”

And that is why I am here. I want you to teach me painting and carving and how to work silver and how to be a blacksmith.

That is what I think. But I do not say it.

My father settles back into his chair. “Interested in learning,” he says in a low voice. He seems to be saying that to himself rather than to me. He reaches his hand up to his chin and strokes it with two fingers. “Hmmm.”

What he says next surprises me.

“How is your mother?”

“My mother?”

“I have heard that she is well.”

“Yes, she is.” My answer is quicker, sharper than I intended. I did not come here to talk about my mother.

“Does she know that you have come here to see me?” He nods toward my chunkey stick still leaning against the porch near the bottom of the steps. “Or did you tell her you were going to go and play with your friends?”