I pulled into the driveway and parked behind her car – the light had taken forever to turn, so perhaps I sped a bit too quickly down this meek dead-end neighborhood off the main through-way – and held my breath before reaching for my camera bag. The same door faced me, the same curtains laced the windows, fluttering in the breeze of the fan she perpetually kept on.

The counterspace of my tiny first apartment kitchen is barely enough to place everything I needed. Parchment on the cookie sheets, I set the oven to 365 – Mémère notes to bake them at 350, but my oven, like my hands, runs cold.

To our family, the role of the storyteller is a shared one. Orators of each generation naturally gravitate towards our collective history, hoping, in some way, to carry it forward for those yet to come.