They must think I made this place up. Cousins seem to appear from behind every bush and rock. They see my last name on street signs and store fronts. Ancient, crackled photos are produced at every stop. This was your great-great-great uncle's ship. This was the house your grandfather was born in. None of them exist anymore. We go to museums where there was something real before. This was once a fortress. This, a fishing station. The lobster pots are a prop now. Inside, a tool for mending nets is displayed with a laminated plaque explaining how it worked. My grandfather's hands explained it to me a lifetime ago.