After three rings, Luis answered.
“Hello?”
Dad shut his eyes for a moment.
“Luis.”
A long pause followed before Luis answered.
“You still sound serious.”
Dad laughed with an abandon that seemed to return him to twenty-seven.
“And you still insult people before saying hello.”
“That was hello.”
They talked for ninety minutes. Forty years wouldn’t fit into one call, so they spoke of weather, work, lost friends, Luis’s travels and Granddad and Grandmom. At the mention of the workshop, Luis grew quiet.
“I remember that land,” Luis recalled.
“So do I now.”
“Did you build the shop?”
“We’re rebuilding it.”
“We?”
“My sons.”
Silence stretched again.
“You have sons.”
“Two.”
“You never sent photographs.”
“I know.”
“Well, that was inconsiderate.”
“Yes.”
Derek and I traded glances. Dad had never accepted criticism so readily. Then Luis made a request. “Send some.”
Dad smiled to himself.
“I will.”
Their weekly calls
