Illuminated from the bathroom, across the hall, and up the stairs hung hundreds of pictures, images, reminders of the moments measuring out the time of my aunt’s life travels.   There were so many of them, countless unlabeled beaches, waves crashing shores, mountains, and flowers, and natives from far away.  They meant nothing to me nor to most that saw them, as it remained impossible to tell where each image originated.   It was clear they weren't meant for us, or for anyone else for that matter; they served as her life's work, these moments captured, retained, memories to keep her warm at night, to serve as a confirmation of what she'd created, better than a marriage, more exciting than children.

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