He took a deep breath.
It was like that first moment
stepping off the plane in Cabo,
the newness of memory refreshing itself,
his skin sucking up the smell,
the sting of bright light.
His right hand shot to his breast pocket
for the sunglasses already hanging on his face.
It could have been Milan, or Paris,
or Miami for that matter.
He thought about his son
standing on the front step
looking more like a grandfather
than a boy waving goodbye.
It struck him when his son
had asked if there was time to light a candle.
They'd had to hurry and when they got to church
he only had money for one so they both held the match.
He wiped a tear from his eye
and nearly missed his plane.
Years later, after the divorce, after the hurt
his wife told him how their son
had pasted a picture of him onto cardboard
to keep in his pocket for good luck,
his roasary, his rabbit's foot.
She said he called it, Little Daddy.
It had been through the wash.
Even then, it was almost gone.
