their half-circle heads

with giant, deep eyes

pop and peek over

wakes they make.

I want so badly

to swim out

to Seal Island,

walk on the shore,

and just sit in the middle of them,

their round bodies

fat on purpose

to keep warm

in the cool water.

In Bolinas,

we park near the general store,

walk along the giant wall murals,

multicolored hands intertwined, sun on fire,

green turtles and redwood beetles,

a mountain lion and mermaid.

Do you want to get ice cream, Ari?

Her question surprises me,

but when I look at her,

I see she’s trying to cheer me up,

share something together

like we’ve always done.

I do.

Vanilla-filled sugar cones

dipped in chocolate,

the kind where the shell

hardens and cracks in a second.

We eat it by the water.

Plans

Jorge calls,

and we make plans

for our hike.

Do you want to go overnight?

I think about it. Scared a little,

but it’s perfect timing,

a chance to get away,

have an adventure.

Yes.

We agree to check

with our moms.

The Mothers Talk

I wait until after breakfast,

when she’s had her coffee,

opened the doors,

and begun to swirl the paint.

Mom, Jorge and me,

we want to hike up Bolinas Ridge.

Tomorrow?

She stops swirling, smiles at me.

Can I go, Mom? By ourselves?

It’s an overnight.

You just have to take us up the road

near Olema, and then we take

McCurdy Trail to Bolinas Ridge.

There’s a campground

near the top. (There isn’t.)

Jorge has a phone,

so we can tell you how we are. (He does.)

She pulls out her phone,

calls Jorge’s mom.

In the corner of the nursery,

near the door,

a gray mouse makes a break for it.

It scurries across the floor,

pauses by the doorframe,

and lifts its front paws in the air,

then down into a crack

in the old wooden deck.

I hear chatter on either

side of the call,

the sounds of mothers talking

in secret languages,

a thousand words that lead to

Yes

Tools for the Journey

Jorge comes over the next morning

like some adventurer

on his way to Middle-earth

or some other fantasy world.

He opens his sketchbook,

pours out maps he’s made,

shows me notes on trees

and poison oak.

He turns the pages slowly,

explains each drawing,

his giant hands in all directions

like some kind of minister.

Lisa walks in.

Jorge puts his hand

on her shoulder.

Lisa, you should come with us!

And he smiles an irresistible smile.

Where? she asks.

Her hair pulled back.

No makeup. Beautiful.

She sits down.

Jorge explains the trip,

tapping his carved wooden cross

from fingertips to palm,

occasionally looking at me.

Not Telling

I avoid her,

walk toward the counter,

drink some water,

pretend to pack.

Lisa walks over to me.

You don’t want me to go?

I say nothing.

Ari?