In my memory the sky seems too blue, too dark, or too full of clouds to see. And their voices too much for a child’s ear, not overly loud or harsh but full of the world and understanding. I cannot visit them where they are, the places are lost to me, unknown, overgrown. The odd trinket, a cufflink, a few coins, a cane and a cup are reminders of a legacy too easily lost. The aroma of coffee, tobacco and peaches are trinkets of another kind. They are ever present markers, stones and lines spanning memory, time, earth; last words, final thoughts, the dying wish for one last taste. What I remember now is all that is left of a grandfather, grandmother, too many aunts and an uncle Joe. Even my mother and father are fading from what I know to what I remember; their voices still too much.