Dusty old leather volume, Your engraved beauty on faded cover so Sturdy. Crafted for the ages. Your pages full with tales told in glory. They recede on weathered paper as your own aged eyes strain against forgotten tintype. Hands grasp, longing to peruse, Cradling you homeward in my arms, so Ready. Willing you ‘live again’. Your children bend eager hearts to hear. We tend your leaves and stitches as our own hopeful eyes strain to preserve everything within you. Fragility seals against all inquiry, consigning to unreachable places, leaving history to mere storytellers, as we mourn.