Something in the picture says remember me each time he holds it in trembling hands. Turning it over, he sounds out the words in pencil there. Circus. He knows that, the place with wild animals and, let’s see, yes, with other things. Brooklyn is harder. He thinks he might have lived there, but his wife says he confuses it with Chicago. He doesn’t know where that is, though he guesses it’s a place. 1931 is easy. That’s the year he was six and his first brother was three, right before the family moved — from Brooklyn! yes! — to his uncle John’s farm overlooking the fjord in Norway. He smiles. Turns the picture over. Hears remember me. But doesn’t.