I found boxes my aunt had stored for decades.
Christmas ornaments.
Elementary school report cards.
My mother’s recipe notebook.
A cracked ceramic rooster that once sat above our kitchen sink.
I made cinnamon French toast the way she used to make it.
Daniel tracked down a cassette player so we could listen to tapes from my childhood.
We drove to my old elementary school.
We walked the church parking lot where Mom used to sell handmade candles during holiday fairs.
We visited the lake where that photograph had been taken.
Nothing.
She would smile.
Sometimes cry because she could see how badly I wanted her to remember.
But there was no recognition behind her eyes.
One afternoon, I caught her staring at a framed photograph on my desk.
It showed three people.
Me.
Mom.
And my father.
“Who is the man?”
I immediately took the frame from her hands.
“Nobody you need to worry about.”
Her brow furrowed.
“He’s in several pictures.”
“Yes.”
“Was he your father?”
I put the photograph in a drawer.
“His name was Michael.”
