Linda remembered her parents. She knew them mainly by photographs left behind: her mother's coiffed hair, her father's stringy mustache, their frozen, sepia expressions. Then there were assorted hazy memories: dim sparkles that would occasionally gain texture but usually remained in silhouette. Sometimes there was a dull ache like an old tooth. Often there was nothing at all.
Gary barely knew who his parents were. There were no mementos or pictures, and no remaining relatives to server as reminders. Just the church records.
It was a mixed blessing. No one came to visit. No one complained when they weren't home.