In my memory their voices are too much for a child’s ear, not overly loud or harsh just full of the strange world of adults. I cannot visit them where they are now. The places are lost to me, far away, unknown, overgrown. The odd trinket, a cufflink, a few coins, a cane, reminders of a legacy too easily lost. The aroma of coffee, tobacco and peaches are trinkets of another kind, markers spanning memory and time. Reminders of 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 father and brother are fading from what I know to what I remember, their voices still too much.