Old Pictures

 Photo by Josef Maxson on Unsplash

They ask to see old photos. I show them. After all, that’s why I kept them: to give my children a sense of their history.

Just four more days, then I won’t see them for eighteen. I won’t hold them close or smell the unique fragrances of their heads.

They ask for one more, after I say, “The end.”

I indulge. I snuggle a little closer.

But every picture, as I describe what it is, where it was taken, and the story behind it, takes a toll on me. My breath catches. My heart races. My mouth grows drier by the minute. The nerves in my hands are firing full force.

I keep going, until I truly can’t breathe anymore. I say, “Just one more. That’s it.”

We stop. I smile and tell them to head upstairs, fighting hard to keep the tremor out of my voice.

I hug myself as they run upstairs, trying to catch each other.

Then, I hear a whisper:
“That was fun, right? Looking at all those pictures?”

My heart stops, unknowing.

We traverse new territory every day.