In my silent picture memories out back in the old house at Longview, a few places stand out. The window above the sink overlooking the backyard where I would see my mother watching us play. I imagine myself there now for I look like her and there is nothing to look onto, but the sun setting on a life we once knew when we were all together indefinitely. Outside, there was a hearth somebody had built out of stone and cement where my dad cooked spiced and succulent meat and fish, sometimes bread. He would let me poke open the aluminum foil to see if steam was piping, the matte smoke from his cigarette swirling and blending into the cool twilight air like a ghost hiding and hanging high. As I venture farther these characters and their habits recede into time and it is just me in timeless spaces that know me like ancestral land. I imagine thinking of these places when I am dying. I return to them now because they are where my …