On top of the worn oak dresser near the corner of the bedroom sat a digital photo frame whose eight inch LCD display flashed various pictures stored in its internal memory that Lucia Maria Sheffield treasured over her past sixty plus years. The last five she lived quietly in Marietta, Georgia. Although she cherished her recent three grandchildren from her youngest daughter, Sylvia, this was ultimately belied by the number of photos that flashed forth during the repetitive slideshow presentation. Most of the photos on the digital frame were of her youngest child, Michael. The photo that stood out the most during the idiosyncratic sequence of thirty-two pictures taken from the sixties until the present day was a photo of a young Michael, around one year old. It was a picture of Michael when
