light trickles through the window. on the table before him are piles of photographs: their life together captured in image upon image. he shuffles them, shifts them; he cannot resign himself to not remembering. he stacks the black and white, the sepia; the pinked edges dimple his determined fingers.
she had always been a presence, his wife; he a still savourer of the energy she created and the moments she made. as he arranges the snapshots – by year, by milestone, by son – her imagined narrative, almost audible, lifts the loneliness.
fifty years of recollected contentment, gathered lovingly on the tablecloth, nudge him forward on this reluctant and solitary path.
he is managing.
but he still wishes he had gone first.
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