The next day, back at the beach,
the water is perfect,
and we don’t see those boys again.
Sun-beaten and saltwater-bleached,
we return to the nursery before the sun sets.
A man in a silver shirt
shines near a woman in light blue.
They wear sunglasses inside,
lean on the counter,
turning pages
of print portfolios,
talking low.
Lisa turns to me. Who are they?
I nod and whisper,
with a long o sound,
cO-lec-tOrs.
Lisa nods, smiles a little.
Well, she says, pursing her lips.
I seeee.
My mother
glides in
holding a pink bottle,
champagne and glasses.
She talks as she pours.
The foam bubbles up and over,
and she wipes the counter
in one stylish movement.
She believes that champagne
is the drink of a queen,
sophisticated, transformative.
We sit in the courtyard near Melinda,
watch the feral beach cats walk
the top of the fence.
The collectors ask questions.
The Artist answers,
disjointed and familiar phrases,
names of sculptures:
The Ice Priest is a reincarnation of the Mother Spirit.
The Lotus Keeper is the guardian of the sacred flower.
There is an opening in the head of the creature
for the life force to come and go as it pleases.
More champagne.
She clears her throat, signals us
to get salami and crackers.
In the back, we pull Ritz from boxes
and arrange them in a semicircle
on a floral platter.
We build a cheese tower,
place salami in a red sea around it.
I fold cheese squares and salami into my mouth
with my left hand. With my right,
I hold a cracker to my nose.
I can feel the golden flakiness and crunch
on my tongue.
The woman smiles.
We are interested in the entire collection.
My mother shakes her head in disbelief.
This is what she’s been waiting for.
They talk for a long time.
Later,
the Artist walks them to the gate.
She smiles, closes it behind them.
The sun is down now.
Did they buy it? I ask.
No, Ari, they did not. She sighs.
But they might? She puts her
hands on my head.
I’m taller than her now,
but I still fit in her hands.
It’s not that simple, Ari.
She breathes in and exhales words with no air.
Your father should be here.
He does the business. Closes the deals.
Her body moves past me.
I try to think of excuses for him,
but there aren’t any.
Headlights of cars
filter through the gate.
I watch the soulless
face of the Lotus Keeper.
His eyes are closed,
his cracked terra-cotta hands
domed over
his perfect clay flower.
She’s right.
He should
be here.