Paloma hoped that if she could gather enough of them, she’d be able to finally understand the man he had been. She always kept the box by her bedside, and sometimes before falling asleep, she’d stare at the photographs of her
handsome, dark-haired dad holding her in front of her birth- day cake or pushing her in a stroller. She often hoped that if she stared long enough at a photograph, maybe the memory of that exact moment would rise up above all the others in her head the way their plane had risen high above the clouds. Then she’d have something real to hold. But it never hap- pened. She always ended up right where she started, with no memories of her own. Perhaps she’d find a clue in Mexico that would finally reveal a real memory of her father that was all her own.
6
Made with FlippingBook - Online catalogs