Little did we know our playful poses by grandfather’s one story shanty – a country doctor’s office – would be the last memory of us. Not that we didn’t live full lives and create life from our life, but that the line of love is broken. The look in our eyes is silenced for no one remembers who we are. We are sentenced – not even ghost-worthy – just trapped in a 4 X 5 cell glued to a brittle page, paused over briefly by strangers.