It was a warm Sunday in mid-October.
I was in the passenger's seat of my dad's car, as the vehicle made a 90 degree turn on to Hayne Road in Memphis. There stood a house aged fifty years, lined with azaleas and magnolia trees.
We turned into the driveway, hopped out of the car, and made our way inside the house.
We entered through the kitchen, the living room visible, with two large leather chairs sitting side-by-side, only a coffee table separating them. My grandmother sat in the far chair, while my grandfather sat in the chair closest to us.