Here is my mother, Betty, in 1960. The dog in the passenger seat is Una. The cat beside the car is Abigail. By the time I came along, both Abigail and Una were gone. But I heard stories: how fiercely the cat had guarded my brother in his playpen, how the dog had loved to go for rides in the Triumph, sitting up tall and staring straight-ahead.
The cat, the dog, the car, my mother, all of them are gone now.
But still, here they are: vital, alive, smiling, suspended in this square of light.
I can hold them in the palm of my hand.

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