I hear their complaints 
and criticisms, 
a verbal argument 
spilling down the hallway. 

They are adult siblings. 
There has been 
a death in the family. 

Their voices are harsh, 
laden with profanity. 
No one is happy to be here, 

until 
one of them opens up 
a box of photographs. 

The tone of conversation 
instantly changes, 
rising as they 
laugh. 

They laugh 
and they laugh 
and they laugh. 

There is no more 
argument. They have 
found agreement in their 
shared past, 
memories of a family 
history. 

The photos are put away. 
The door is closed, 
with a lock secured. 
They have gone 
separate ways. 

Some day they will 
be found together 
again 
in a box of old photographs.