Luis looked at him.
“You got short.”
Dad stared.
“You got bald.”
Then Luis opened his arms.
Dad hugged him.
Forty years disappeared badly.
Awkwardly.
Imperfectly.
Which was exactly how they should have disappeared.
Later, at dinner, Luis studied Derek and me as though we were historical artifacts.
“So you’re the accountant.”
“That would be me.”
“And you’re the furniture restorer.”
Derek nodded.
Luis pointed toward Dad.
“Do not let him criticize your sanding.”
Dad protested.
“My sanding is excellent.”
“You made me sand the same chair leg for six hours when I was thirteen.”
“You were lazy.”
“I became a photographer specifically to avoid sandpaper.”
For the next week, Luis stayed in Carmona.
He visited the land.
The first time he entered the old building, he went silent.
Then he saw his name on Granddad’s drawing.
Dad waited.
“I didn’t know he wrote it down,” Luis said.
