Pulling into a cracked asphalt driveway. Ushered under an aluminum awning to navigate a sea of aging found objects and lace. Stone-stepping across the yard to “his workshop, he built it himself,” she says. A cluttered universe of frozen sound and picture memories. Radio, 8-track, CD. Painting, film, print. Trinket Tetris with a chair to complete the visual puzzle. He has a spare photo enlarger, but his back is bad and it’s way, way up there. So if I want it I have to get it. The trunk is full but it squeezes in above our own baggage. A firm handshake and we drive away, the rear view mirror filled with a memory.