Figure 6. The ghost in the center is my mother. I am the toddler in her hands. One summer day forty years ago, enough sunlight was reflected from her skin, from her hair, from her clothes to ingrain this image on a strip of film. A billion other photons scattered, their collective moments indicating all directions. And because each traveled at the speed of light, each carried its own time with it. I wonder now. If I could find but one of those particles_if I could somehow get between it and the dark distance of all our endings_would there be enough light left to see what she was, or why, or what all this has meant.