That's all you can do. You close your eyes, and after a while the pieces begin to talk. The words are whispers at first. Fragments of conversation. In the kitchen a radio plays, making a tinny, old-fashioned sound.
Notes fill the small apartment and flutter down the hall.
My mother is smiling. The camera tips, and the shutter hits the red tabletop. But my father doesn't hear or doesn't care. He walks over to my mother, slips his hand around her waist and leads her into the kitchen, where he takes her in his arms. She sighs, and their cheeks touch as they dance on the worn, linoleum floor, she in her slippers, pink and open-toed, and he in shiny police boots.