I call my aunt who is ninety-six, the only one still with us, all her siblings now passed. She can’t hear me, refuses aids she says hiss with static, twists her body instead to catch the faint sound. And she can’t see me, tells me everything is dim on the screen, frowns and squints so I’ll swim into focus: first, I’m a murky shape in a cloudy pool, then my face breaks the surface. She floods with bright relief, gives me a smile of clear amber, says how much I resemble my father—memories like steeped tea flowers bloom around her. Tears brim. She tells me she has a brother, asks if I know him.