Pictures on a mantle. She looks at them. Old black and whites of parents and grandparents. Of children and ladies in their youth, handsome men wearing suits. A baby picture of dad.

So long ago, she whispers. Now they’re all gone. Disease, heartache, heart attacks, and old age, we’re all doomed, I guess, she laughs. No getting out of it.

The gray-haired lady takes a seat. Rocks back and forth. I wonder when I’ll join them, she smiles. I wonder.

We all wonder. We all look at pictures on a mantle, a shelf, book cases, or tucked away in cedar chests.

My father died in my arms, she remembers. He said he felt dizzy and then collapsed in my arms. We never said goodbye.