The last holiday everyone was in one photo was Christmas 2019 at my sister's house. Eleven of us squeezed onto her floral couch.
I found the picture last week, still in the frame on my fridge. The glass is a little fogged from when the basement took on water after the last storm.
My brother's in the back row, hand on my shoulder. He died in March. The validation ticket from the hospital parking garage is still in my glove box. Fourteen dollars.
Every afternoon I drive past the school pickup line. Parents in their minivans, tapping phones. I used to be one of them, forty years ago. Now I'm the old man who waves at the crossing guard.
The photo survived the flood because I grabbed the frame before the water reached the kitchen. My hands are used to gripping things—a football, a whistle, the railing when the stairs feel longer than they used to.
I'm the youngest, by eleven years. The baby. That's what they still call me when I visit their graves. I'm the one who keeps the photo.
After midnight, when the rain starts again, I take it off the fridge and wipe the glass with my sleeve. Eleven faces, all smiling. I'm the one who remembers.