Memories in photograph albums

My dad died in 1984. 


One of the things my mom and I did before moving from Atlanta to Boone in 1997 was go through several hundreds of photos.

(I get my "camera love" from my dad)


It was a painful, joyous, tearful, laugh-filled time.  

Lots of "omg, remember this?!"


And some "WHO is that?!"  


Pictures of people neither of us remembered, but who we knew weren't family members, were finally tossed.


And she decided which pictures she wanted to keep and gave me the rest. 


After we moved to Boone, before I found a job and while Donald was at work, my mom and I would spend days putting pictures in photo albums. 

This was easier on our hearts than that first step of going through them all.

The surprises were behind us, and the memories were sweet.

And we laughed.

Those were good days.



Then my mom died in 2015.


I was now retired, and Donald was still working.


I spent several days going through her apartment deciding what to do with what, and Donald would come over in the evenings to help.


Again, wow - memories.  They can knock a person flat.



We brought this box of photo albums home with us.

Photos I haven't seen since 1997.


I haven't been able to bring myself to open the first album.


But it may be time.


I've been missing my folks.  A lot.


It would be nice to be able to pick up the phone and talk about how we're feeling right now.  


Honestly?  Some days I feel sad and frightened and need a hug from my mom and dad.


Hear my mom toss out some of her salty philosophy, while my dad wears a grin at her dramatics and nods his head.


So.


Since I can't sit across the table from them for Sunday dinner, maybe it's time for me to relive some memories that are all tied up in these photo albums.


I love and miss them both.

Hazel and Al Wilkinson

By Herself and Her Friends

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,
Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must, Parting is hell,
But Life goes on, So sing as well.

Joyce Grenfell