on the inside

that really matters.

You came to me without

anyone telling you to.

You let me in without

anyone forcing you.

That’s strength.

And here we are.

I’m proud of you.

When he finally lets go of my hand,

I half expect to see saltwater taffy.

But it’s just my hand and his freckled fingers.

He looks one more time at Mysterious World.

It’s a good book!

he announces.

He takes a sip of water,

and he walks slowly toward the door.

I got to be going.

Be good to your mother.

He looks around one more time,

mutters something under his breath

and looks back at me,

then disappears down the stairs.

Finally

Packed,

in the car,

we cross the bridge,

drive through Mill Valley,

because I convince my mom

that we should at least

go by her house to check on her.

She texts her. No response.

No one is home.

My mom calls her mom.

No answer. Her mailbox is full.

We drive next to the bike path,

through town. The bakery is closed,

and I imagine marzipan potatoes

like a small pouch of sand

in my palm.

Before, I could’ve

eaten five in a row,

but now I think

one would be just perfect.

Homecoming

We wind our way

along the back roads to Stinson,

past old bunkers

of the Marin Headlands,

and the Marine Mammal Center.

Winding all the way

around to Muir Beach

and back

down the twisted road

into Stinson, nestled

between the hills and the sea.

We open the nursery gate, and the courtyard

is filled with its terra-cotta citizens;

trolls, and plaster bodies, birds, and insects

welcome us back.

It’s a homecoming my mother desperately needs,

and I see her with her face to the sun,

her silver hair translucent,

her face smooth and warm

in the afternoon light.

Settling (Back) In

Happy to be back at last,

I sit at the driftwood table

behind the counter,

lay out a half block of clay,

and three wood carving tools

in different sizes,

double wire,

single hook,

and straight spike.

I put the clay

on a paper plate,

tear off a piece,

and begin slapping it

against the ocean-soaked wood

with all my might

until the air

is all the way out.

I carve the trolls,

one round with stringy

coiled hair and sunken eyes.

The other tall and skinny,

with a sausage nose and a single

fang on the bottom lip,

then tiny, bulbous eyes

rolled between palms

and poked with the edge

of a toothpick.

Trolls on bikes

and boogie boards,

and with hiking sticks,

tiny backpacks,

and beach balls.

I let them dry

on the plate

in the warm sun.

Giant Salamander

Jorge sits at the bus stop

across the street.

His pencil furious

in his sketchbook.

A canvas bag full of groceries

at his feet.

Jorge! I call,

and he stands up.

Ari! he shouts.

I run across the street.