Richard Freeman cocked his head to the side as he studied me. “A distant cousin?” he said. “I think you’re not telling me the whole story. I think you’re Aunt Rose.”
I raised an eyebrow. No one had called me Aunt Rose in decades.
Richard smiled. He waved his hand at the collection of photos covering the wall above the bar. I squinted and then shrugged. The darkness of the Wandering Cajun was comforting but not conducive to making out details in an old photograph ten feet distant. “What I am looking at?” I asked.
He pulled a framed photo down from the left of the large mirror and placed it before me. It depicted a large family of perhaps twenty-five people dressed in their Sunday best and posing enthusiastically for the camera. I knew them all. I remembered the occasion. Richard pointed at a small boy with a gap toothed smile who had already dirtied the knees of his tiny suit. He said, “That’s me.” He then drew his finger upward to the well dressed young woman standing behind the boy. “That’s you,” he said.