After my third spinal surgery, I walk unbalanced
through antiques, looking for Lu-Ray, Wedgwood,
anything royal from England or Germany, even
Austria if I’m lucky. Japanese luster- and transfer-ware
catch my eye. The roasting smell of cashews in sugar-
cinnamon coating emanates from a booth
next to lemonade—fresh and sweet.

They deep fry cheesecake, Oreos, and butter
at one booth, offer dusted fried dough at another.
A black rotary phone on a wooden phone table
reminds me of my grandmother’s, how heavy
it felt in my hand, how loud the voices were
and then how cold the water was in the bottle
she kept in her small fridge inside her miniature
apartment—it seemed like a playhouse to me—
with a breezeway and furniture she fit into.

Passing collections of postcards, photos, stamps,
and letters, I feel tired at the thought of stooping
to look to find a gem in this heat. I like buying boxes
of junk and searching for treasures: a tiny brass Buddha,
an unchipped salt cellar, or a Gumby pin-back button.
At the sandwich booths, there’s chicken, gyro, or BBQ
pork with pita or bread, curly or straight fries optional.

There is nothing for me here anymore.

I buy a small creamer gilded with gold on a floral
print, the top edges wavy like petals, and a photo
of a woman standing near a tree in a fur coat and hat
with someone who could be her sister, maybe a cousin.