Blue Lobster—Ink

“This week has been good to us,” I said.

“Yes,” the boy said, “Each night I have dreamed.”

“That is because your mind is limber,” I said. “It is free. And we have been eating, being well, and staying free from the technology. What did you dream?”

“I have had many,” the boy said.

“Your favorite of them then,” I said.

“Do you see that cloud there?” The boy asked.

“Which one,” I said.

“The big one, with a head shaped like a marlin.”

“I see it,” I said.

“I was inside of one just like it.”

“It is a good omen.” I said.

“Which?” The boy asked.

“To dream a dream inside of a cloud,” I said. “What did you think I meant?”

“To be inside the marlin head,” the boy said. “You are a very old man and you misplace words often.”

“I am,” I said. “And what did you do inside of the great sky marlin’s head?”

“I fished,” the boy said.

I laughed. “Of course you did,” I said. “Of course you did. And what did you catch?”

“I was reeling you in when you woke me for breakfast.”

I shook my head, making sense of what had happened. “And that is why my face startled you when your eyes opened?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “You scared me.”

“I know,” I said, placing my left hand behind his head. “I know I did.”

“You know a lot of things,” the boy said.

“I know some of them.”

“What is something you do not know,” the boy asked.

“Today you ask many questions,” I said.

“Yes,” the boy said. “I have the spirit.”

“You do,” I said to him. “I will tell you what I do not know, but you must promise not to ask anything further about it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said. “You understand many things, young boy. You will be a wonder, I know it.”

The boy twisted twine as I thought, what is the best of things I cannot comprehend, for I will only ever give the boy the best of what I do or do not have. And I must have it be commensurate with the young boy’s understanding. Not death. The smoke. Or the bed. None of them. And it must not give him the nightmares, else he will pee the bed, and I cannot bear seeing him like this again.

“What color is the lobster?” I asked.

The young boy looked up, smiling.

“Red — no.” The boy stopped to think for a moment. “They are many colors.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You do not understand many things.” The boy said.

“That is because I am a very old man.” I said.

“Yes,” the boy said, and laughed.

“In the grocer,” the boy started, “the lobster is orange by account of the water. But in the ocean, on account of the true salt, the lobster is a true red; the color of the worn hydrant for the firemen.”

“That is good. That is very good,” I said. “But there is another color of the lobster. Do you know it?”

The boy’s neck twisted back in a flinch. “How can it be?” The boy said, “What is it?”

“Blue.” I said.

The boy’s smile — I could not describe it. “No.” The boy said, barely keeping his teeth in.

“Yes,” I said. “There is a blue lobster. I have seen it.”

“Before we first swam?” The boy asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Long beforehand.”

“Was it a big one?” The boy asked.

“Bigger than the one at the summer weigh-in.”

The boy stood up then. “How could it!?”

“I cannot explain it,” I said. “I am just an old man.”

“But you know many things.” The boy said, then grabbed my hand. “Tell me how the blue came to it.”

“It is long and arduous,” I said smiling at him. “Or would you like to hear of the national hockey? The Avalanche of Colorado will play tonight, and your mother is from there.”

The young boy could not hold his excitement. “I already know much of the Avalanche of Colorado,” he said. “They are too quick, they cannot be beaten. I am prepared for the story of the blue lobster,” the boy said.

“But the Stars of Dallas have taken them to a final game of seven.” I said.

“I am not worried for them,” the boy said. “The great MacKinnon will speed past the Dallas defensive men.”

“I believe in the great MacKinnon and the young Makar,” I said. “I have never seen edges as good as his.”

“They will win,” the boy said. “I dreamed it.”

“That is where I found the blue lobster,” I said.

The boy’s mouth gaped open. “In a dream?” the boy asked. “So it is not real then?” His knees were curled in tight to his chest, both arms wrapped around them. Seagulls called out in the distance, young girls with them, splashing white wash and plastic shapes for sand castle gardens, or motes built to keep the tide from coming in. It was the kind of day one yearns for the possibility of pausing, but must work hard to remind himself that these powers did not yet exist.

“I have seen it in the physical,” I said.

The boy wrapped his whole hand around my middle finger and squeezed it.

“Was it a big one?” The boy asked.

“I have already said so, yes.” I said.

“How did you net it?”

“One does not net the blue lobster, young boy.” I said.

“It is rare then.” The boy presumed.

“Yes,” I said.

“What does the fisherman do when he has seen it then?” The boy asked.

“Do you remember the leaf that you followed to the ocean?” I asked him.

“Yes. You picked it up just before the water when we first met.” The boy said.

“Do you really remember it, or have I told you this story so many times since?” I asked.

“I remember it,” the boy said.

“The fisherman does not net the blue lobster,” I said. “The fisherman merely admires its existence.”

I watched the boy ponder it, a man and a child in the same instance. “This boy will be a wonder,” I said under my breath. “I am sure of it.”