“And you still insult people before saying hello.”
“That was hello.”
They spoke for ninety minutes.
Not about everything.
Forty years did not fit into one call.
They talked about weather.
Work.
People who had died.
Places Luis had traveled.
Granddad.
Grandmom.
Then Dad mentioned the workshop.
Luis went quiet.
“I remember that land,” he said.
“So do I now.”
“Did you build the shop?”
“We’re rebuilding it.”
“We?”
“My sons.”
Another pause.
“You have sons.”
“Two.”
“You never sent photographs.”
“I know.”
“Well, that was inconsiderate.”
“Yes.”
Derek stared at me.
I had never heard Dad agree so easily to criticism.
Then Luis said, “Send some.”
Dad smiled.
“I will.”
They began calling every Sunday.
Sometimes for ten minutes.
Sometimes for two hours.
Luis had become a commercial photographer.
He had married, divorced, and remained close friends with his former wife.
He had no children.
He had spent twenty years photographing architecture and craftspeople across the Southwest.
