Packing, I answer, “I don’t remember much, after all it was 12 years ago.”
There, Don Toledo asks, ¿ “Ha cambiado mucho Cancun?”
They translate my answer. “Realmente no lo recuerdo.”
Of course I remember.
It’s the place I’ve searched for in my twelve-year long dream, stumbling through the dark, uneven streets, past the wrought iron gates and the barking roof-top dogs of the city trying to find it again. Uxmal — the place Lalo called home.
And I remember him, his warm brown eyes -- the heavy, hot touch of his hand, and the weight of his arm across the small of my back. I’ve felt that touch each time our son puts his arm around me, rests against me, or holds my hand.
Home again, they ask, “So, was it different?”
“Not that much but it’s hard to say, it was a long time ago.” I lie.