We walked on the bridge over the Chicago River
for what turned out to be the last time,
and I ate cotton candy, that sugary air,
that sweet blue light spun out of nothingness.
It was just a moment really, nothing more,
but I remember marveling at the sturdy cables
of the bridge that held us up
and threading my fingers through the long
and slender fingers of my grandfather,
an old man from the Old World
who long ago disappeared into the nether regions.
And I remember that eight-year-old boy
who had tasted the sweetness of air,
which still clings to my mouth
and disappears when I breathe.
To sweet memories of our childhood! I have one of a street vendor, selling “Pan de Gloria” (Glory Bread), a soft, gooey, sweet bread, from his bicycle-cart, in the middle of a rainstorm, and of my grandmother buying two buns. Then the two of us ate our bread, watching from the porch, while the vendor disappeared behind the mist.