Faded photographs in porcelain blue boxes shoved under my bed,
a letter in bright blue ink.
He left before I could articulate I needed him,
toddler hands grasping his shirt at the airport.
seven hours and thirty-eight minutes.
I replayed the few memories of him over and over:
A thunderstorm in Puebla, the rain pelting the roof,
the way the lightning,
stabbing at intervals,
arched across the sky.
His laugh, rippling across the living room.
A birthday party, three candles on a sagging cake.
My awe visiting the ruins at Cacaxtla,
how he sat me on his shoulders so I could see,
stacked rock that used to be homes,
desperate etchings on the walls
spelling out a story I had yet to read.
These home movies flickered against my eyelids
before I fell asleep,