Tortilla Sun

I stared at the glossy image. Six-year-old toothless me holding Mom’s hand as white waves broke on the shore behind us. A strand of dark hair blew in Mom’s face, hiding what might have been a small smile.
I turned as Mom appeared in the doorway. “Look at this. I was so little.” I held up the picture, smiling.
When Mom’s eyes found the box I had opened, confusion swept across her face. “Where did you find that? I thought we’d unpacked everything.”
“It… was in here,” I said.
She stepped into the spare room of our new apartment. We’d moved all over San Diego. From 4th Street to 10th Street and from Mulberry Road to Elm Road. The last place we lived was on Paradise Place. That had a nice ring to it. Now, we were living at 1423 M Street. “M” for maybe this will finally be home.
“I haven’t seen this in ages.” Her eyes danced as she traced her long fingers over the photo. “I think you had just lost that front tooth.” She chuckled at the memory.
A soft breeze crawled in through the window, tickling my face. That’s when I caught sight of something else in the box.
A baseball.
I took the baseball from the box and rotated it in my hand. The words because and magic were written across the front. “Whose is this?”
Mom looked up and yanked the ball from my grasp.
“Wait. I want to look at it. What do those words mean?” I said.