Neither one could build a sand castle.
It became a mere crumbling mound.
My son was six and probably his playmate was also,
but her mother spoke only Russian
so I couldn't ask very much about her little girl.
The little girl pointed to herself and said Masha,
and that was also the name her mother called
when she summoned her back from the high-tide water,
where neither my son nor Masha belonged.
So the two built a sand castle never meant to be,
for the more they piled the wet sand higher
the more it slid down.

Her mother had short brown hair
a smile with a gold tooth,
a hint of crow's-feet about the eyes,
which were brown and looked away from me
only when she was watching Masha.
The children jabbered in a pidgin English-Russian.
Then they held hands.
And my hand grew bold and approached my Russian lady
and her hand likewise approached me.
We almost touched.

But a blond-haired man approached
carrying a beach bag.
Husband and wife did not embrace.
Harsh consonants and jarring verbs were exchanged.
Dasvedanya was all he said to me.
My son cried when Masha left.
And Masha turned her head back often
and so did her mother
as they walked away.
Vanishing visions,
her child looking back at my child
and the mother
with long legs and swaying hips
looking back at me.
My son grew quiet and dug with his shovel.
And on dry sand near the crumbling mound
of the not-even-close castle,
I lay down without a blanket
and let the coarse, warm grains caress me.