The pig shed boxes contain multitudes. A photograph of Mum, twenty years younger than I am right now, newly married and just before she became pregnant with Wulf. I hold it up and she grabs it from my hands. “In the Poconos,” she says, “they had these honeymoon packages. Heart-shaped beds, everyone there newly married. It was a place of blissful beginnings.”
“We have the same body,” I say. “Those are just my legs.”
“Well, I certainly do not have that body anymore.”
“No,” I say. “Nor do I, I suppose. But what a babe you were.”
“I was a catch,” she says, squinting at it.
“And so happy.” I peer into the frame, willing it to give me more, to offer up its story. I have never seen my mother smile so openly as in this picture. “Maybe we can put the best pictures aside and make an album, and
