You wait in the 1956 cream Dodge, some rust, with your sister, your brother standing on the seat at the window, your mother saying nothing as she thumbs the latch on the glove compartment. You look through the window at the yellow puffs corroding the white tin wall of the Best Cafe, then up at the unlit neon letters spread like flayed, cooled nerves against the waxy Saturday sun for one, two, then three hours, bags of jacks and dime bread relaxing their crispness, folded, refolded then crumpled in sweaty hands with nothing to do. Sitting on the green army blanket in the back seat you get used to the passing adults lowering lagoons of opaque eyes on you from the sidewalk, when can we go home, when can we go home, after three hours you don’t expect the men wading through that door to be him anymore, you will not expect a man to be him ever again, even when he sits across from us at Christmas when we visit with the children. The space between that car and that bar is bigger than American, bigger than space, roomy enough for staying home on Easter, for Republican politics, for new children to grow up in, for a one-year divorce, for bread and quilts made by the old recipe, for monthly money to the World Vision. This is why after running seven miles when I step inside a cleaned day up the brick walk to the front door, I touch the sides of my head at the splitting absolutely soundless breath of God in the green shrubs flanking your wreath on the door, this is why I re-create you through the side-lights in the kitchen. You raise your flour-covered arm to brush Sarah’s hair from her eye, then stand on a child’s chair and push your whole body down into a mound of dough quickening across the ceramic bar. In an instant I glide like a spirit-man on a pine-scented crest of evergreen voice right through this door into the home of your smile, into this story of why I was born, of the comings and goings of men, of how it happens again at this very, very moment.