How is it that I feel connected to a place that I’ve never been, or seen, with my own eyes? A place where I could only look at the lines of the streets on Google Maps. With the words Melena Del Sur faintly hovering over an empty dirt baseball field and a church square void of life, shining brightly through the scratched screen of my iPhone. And to the people I see in the black & white  film of the old photos my mom keeps hung up on the refrigerator, near the kitchen stove as she cooks, held by faded magnetic picture frames, that stay weakly connected to the rubberized gasket. Their names and stories unspoken, held secret to all, until I ask my mom— “who's that?”