I put Def Leppard on the radio,

turn it way up,

roll the window down

enough for her to hear.

Joe Elliott sings “Photograph.”

I make it louder.

She smiles

just a little.

Silly

I let her ride in the front seat.

When we pass Muir Woods,

my mother talks to us about

redwoods, but we are

busy saying Muir

over and over,

lengthening it …

mmuuuuiiirrr, meeeeuuuuuiiirrr

until finally,

mannurrree.

She smiles. We laugh.

Kids again.

A Tour

When we get there,

we run from one end to the other,

my voice racing

to explain every nuance,

the driftwood piles,

wooden spool tables,

the studios in the back,

the archery range Pick

and I put in the mulch pile,

and the bows we made.

She picks one up and fires an arrow.

Me and Pick worked hard

on this. He’s a good shot.

He can show you when

he gets here. She smiles.

Let me show you the trolls!

On the way

she stops,

stares at a sculpture

of a giant woman,

her eyes wild,

and there are figures coming out of her hair,

their tiny clay hands

on the woman’s neck.

The longer Lisa looks,

the more she sees.

I walk to her and set down

one of the trolls we made

holding a tiny wood sign

that reads THIS WAY TO THE BEACH

while he flexes a tiny troll muscle.

But she just stares into the eyes of the sculpture.

Meet Melinda, I say.

Then in a low voice I mutter, Creepy.

She laughs, then looks across the road

and up toward the mountain.

We should climb to those trees, she says,

and points to a forest near the highest peak,

where the Dipsea Trail cuts over

the mountains.

Yeah, we should, I say.

Lisa takes me by the hand.

Show me where you make the trolls.

Breakfast

I

I wait at the table in the garden

for Lisa to wake up,

so we can go to breakfast.

I sit near Melinda,

my mother’s creation,

an eight-foot-tall

terra-cotta sculpture.

She leans forward.

One clay hand reaches

for the sun.

The other presses the earth.

One foot is forward,

the other placed firmly

along a metal armature.

One day, a magazine will come

and write a story about

what a feat this sculpture is,

how each section

was fired separately in the kiln,

about glue and hoses,

metal bars and pipe threads,

about movements in art,

about rising and falling.

For now, Melinda

watches me

waiting for Lisa.

Lisa walks into the garden,

makes a face at Melinda,

and sits down, her hands in the pocket

of her gray hoodie.

II

At the Coast Bar and Grill,

my mother explains

the diet,

and Lisa tries to take it in.

We order bacon and eggs

with extra bacon.

We order a side of cheese.

Sometimes it’s just easier

to show someone how this all works.

When the food comes,

Lisa is eating her blueberry pancakes