“Too dark in here,” I said to my son, Paul, who had accompanied me to my father’s funeral in Chicago.
“Hit the light switch, Mom.”
“I did but the bulb burned out.”
“Like Poppa,” he said. “Like Poppa what?” I said.
“Burned out.” “Kaput,” I said in the dark, falling into the old word game we’d played since Paul was a pup.
“Fini.” “Bought the farm,” I said. A shared chuckle from the black humor.
A click in the dark and a narrow beam of light illuminated my Father’s packed closet; I groped for his favorite jacket and there it was, worn brown leather bomber style. I pulled it off the hook where it hung for easy access by aged hands and hugged it to my chest. “Smell this,” my son, the jacket thrust in front of his nose where he couldn’t escape.
He inhaled and questioned, “what is it?”
“Perfecto Garcia Queens, Poppas favorites he sent me to the corner drug store to buy them, a quarter a piece.”
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