I'm thinking this photograph might be a good next one to continue to story within all these stories.
So after living in Brooklyn for a few years, my father and grandparents moved to Fairfield, Connecticut.
I supposed they moved for safer streets and better schools.
I know there was a sizable Polish Catholic community they could rest in up north.
That summer they built a small house in the middle of a neighborhood that would soon fill with big mansions.
My grandfather would become their gardener.
Also that summer, my dad almost died from an unknown sulfa drug allergy.
He told me the story that his lips would bleed every time he touched them.
When we were younger, my brother's lips once went from chapped to bleeding and sure enough, he was taking medicine with sulfa.
These stories not only live on in our minds but also in our bodies.
Somehow our bodies seem the most trustable here, not prone to pity or exaggeration or other misrememberings.