I sanded and refinished the old table, preserving the small burn mark where Mom once set down a hot pan.

While clearing out the garage, I found the framed photograph that had fallen during our worst argument when I was nineteen.

The glass was still cracked.

It showed Mom holding a small birthday cake while Dad stood behind me with his hand on my shoulder.

I’d forgotten what the photo contained because I remembered only the sound of the frame striking the floor.

I took it to a shop and had the glass replaced.