This was my father’s advice when I saw him last: If you lose something important, say your wallet or keys, the TV clicker or whatever, turn off all the lights in your apartment. Grab a flashlight and look under your bed, your couch, inside your closet, the refrigerator, et cetera, et cetera. That way, my father said, before clarifying I was to grab my flashlight before I turned off the lights, you’ll see things in a new way. "You’ll gain perspective," he said, then made sure I understood I was to grab my flashlight first. "It wouldn’t make sense the other way around," he added, his mouth silently repeating his words after he said them. His nurse fed him mashed potatoes and wiped his trembling lips. "You won't be able to see otherwise, damnit." Across the room, my son sat in my lap. He drove his Lightning McQueen over my belly and thighs, that little red race car that goes with us everywhere--the grocery store and pediatrician, the park. My mother’s house. Once we left it in a hotel room in Flagstaff and got as far back as Black Canyon City before we had to turn around. Otherwise, he grips tightly in his highchair, the bath, when he is asleep in our arms, our son screaming if my wife or I try to pry it from his fingers before he goes potty. Neither of us want to feel around the basin before flushing ever again. "Unless, of course you were looking for your flashlight in the first place," my father clarified, my father watching my child like a stranger at the park, my son never looking up once the entire visit. "In that case, you might want to reconsider the whole idea."