Pyre The Image is of a man, thirtyish I suppose, dressed in the discomfort of his day—hat, tie, jacket. His is one of the photos my mother saved in a cardboard box— each labeled cleanly on the back, with only a date. This one reads, September 4th, 1934. There is no name. I am intrigued by its absence— An uncle? A friend? He looks like a heavy in an Edward G. Robinson movie. I imagine he wandered the grand boulevard of Brownsville, Pennsylvania Avenue— a slum then and now, up by the elevated train. His fists clenched as if looking ahead to trouble. His temper awry. The smoke from his Lucky Strike worrying his eyes. On this quiet evening in November I add his to the stack of photos I take to the living room fireplace. I burn them one by one— it seems somehow fitting. The gangster puts up little resistance. He silently browns and burns. Yet a plump woman in a squirrel coat with my mother’s wide set eyes burns with fierce blue flames and nerve-shattering pops. The last photo, that of an infant in a knitted cap— pink or blue? must be coaxed into flame for by now, the fire has burned low in the hearth, and through the unshaded window I watch as night comes on too quickly.