I was packing up my father’s desk while I was helping my mother move them into a retirement home, when I found a small metal box of various things belonging to my dad. I recognized the items, not because I had seen them before but because I had heard about them – a picture of my grandmother when she was very young, his military dog tags, a Buffalo nickel. I knew all these items except for one, this picture. On the back in neat handwriting it simply said “Marcie”. I had never, in all my dad’s storytelling years, heard him mention a Marcie. Who could she be? What was this picture? Now, it’s unlikely I will ever know, as disease has slowly taken my father’s language.