It was warm and humid as Connie and I sat at her porch drinking chilled Rosé and nibbled on rice crackers. I asked her to show me old pictures, so her husband pulled a couple of shoe boxes filled with photographs from the top closet drawers. We looked at pictures of her teenage son who died a year and a half ago, their trip to Italy, her upbringing in Iowa, as a teenager with long red hair, her PhD graduation and a set of Connie and her two children snuggling in bed. "These pictures are filled with love," her husband said as he placed one over the fireplace. The quiet Birmingham breeze was blowing as she walked me through the memories behind the pictures and the fate of the people in them. It made me feel I was listening to the story of my family. I like how lives intersect, mine and hers, from such different backgrounds and still being able to relate. "Would you consider moving to Alabama after you leave New York?" she asked. "It could be. You never know."
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