“Luckies”

The loop of rusty cable incises its shadow on the stucco wall. My father smiles shyly and takes one of my cigarettes, holding it awkwardly at first, as if it were a dart, while the yard slowly swings across the wide sill of daylight. Then it is a young man’s quick hand that rises to his lips, he leans against the wall, his white shirt open at the throat, where the skin is weathered, and he chats and daydreams, something he never does. Smoking his cigarette, he is even younger than I am, a brother who begins to guess, amazed, that what he will do will turn out to be this. He recalls the house he had when I was born, leaning against it now after work, the pale stucco of memory, 1947. Baby bottles stand near the sink inside. The new wire of the telephone, dozing in a coil, waits for the first call. The years are smoke.