Cotton Candy

                                                                                     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.