I sift through the photos. Most drop unseen, through my fingers and onto the coffee table. The ones on top, the most recent, are of Sandy and me. In Central Park. At the cabin upstate. I'm in a canoe, Sandy is on the beach. Sandy covered with sand.
At the very bottom, held together with a thick rubber band, are a group of a dozen or so photographs. I clear a spot on the table, pushing the other photos in a pile, and lay them down in a rectangle.