A brush of his lips against her shoulder sent her spiraling back to where they began. They’d been young lovers then, each other’s reason to live. Pressing her head against his chest, listening past the staccato rhythm of his heart, she could hear his laughter as he celebrated the birth of their first child; she could see herself whipping sweat, earned from a days work in the field, from his strong brow and smell the scent that the cotton field left on the surface of his skin. But that was then. Now, here they are again, a century away from where they started, staring at each other each trying to remember what they both forgot.