I am standing in the hallway looking at a photo­graph. It is a black and white, 11 × 17 print; it shows three pigs in a white pen.

"How about an apple?" shouts my aunt as she rushes past me into the kitchen. I do not want any fruit. I have been stuffing my face in preparation for a twelve-hour airplane journey. The pigs are collected toward one corner of the picture; they're set off against a dark background of mud. It is a kind of picture that makes me think things are going to be alright.

"This picture—" I say. I am trying to get my aunt's attention, to ask her where it's from.

"And, you know," she shouts,, "You have to have your passport with you. You can't have that in your checked bags." She zips past me in the hallway again; I point at the picture before she is gone.

"Whose picture is—" I mutter.

"OK. Do we have everything?" shouts my aunt from the vestibule. I am packed. I have been packed for roughly three weeks. I am ready to go. I want to know who took this picture, who printed it.

I point at the picture, hoping to grab attention in the quiet of this question.

My uncle, 73.5 years old, shuffles into the hallway. I am pointing at the picture.

"Yah fahthah's," he breathes, him a lifelong native of Boston.

"Do you need any more food?" shouts my aunt from the vestibule. There is no pause. "The pigs?" she adds. "Your father gave us that."