My younger cousin Maya found the photograph in a box I'd marked two dollars. She held it up and studied it the way kids study things, with her whole face.
There's a scissors shape where my dad used to be. Right between my mom and me, at some birthday, candles blurry on the cake.
Who's missing, she said. Nobody, I said. She looked at me the way she looks at me when I say things that aren't true.
On the lamp next to the box, a garage-sale price sticker was peeling at the corner. Three dollars. I'd been staring at it like it mattered.
She put the photo back and didn't ask again. But she stayed next to me for a while, sorting through the box without really looking at anything.
I kept the photograph. Put it in my jacket pocket before anyone could buy the box. I don't know why. I cut him out myself five years ago and I still can't throw the rest away.