Memories become shrines. Altars I visit to mourn, worship and remember. Well-preserved, adorned with black and white photos. Some are visited more often than others, some have more photos, some are older and dustier, with cobwebs strewn across, but if it's a shrine, you will always remember the photos and the lives that lie there. It's always silent at these shrines. The quietness turns to feelings, and feelings turn to thought. But what is dead is dead. No amount of silent reflecting will return them to me.