In Loving Memory
When I finally felt I had cried until I could cry no longer, I turned to go. There was nothing else to do there, and I would do no good lingering now that I had paid proper respects. I looked around with moist eyes, noticing that I seemed to be the only one here at the moment. Just as well. I didn't like being emotional when there were other people around, especially when those people were strangers. I was strong enough to deal with things on my own, and didn't want or need anyone else's sympathy. The walk back to my car seemed to drag on longer than the walk to the grave how, as if suddenly the distance had multiplied by five. Finally, though, I reached it and pulled open the door, sliding roughly into the driver's seat, and turned the key. I sat there for a few seconds, thinking how the hardest part of my day was now over, before I pulled away and drove to the scrapbook store.
I walked in the door and found myself barraged with flowered paper and ribbons, fancy stationary, and colorful stickers, all of which clashed terribly with my mood. I did a double-take as I walked in, trying to look for something that was, at the very least, a neutral color, a beige or off-white paper that I could use. It took me a while, but finally I spotted an aisle that didn't look too fancy, and I headed toward it. There was all I needed: a pair of good scissors, some cream paper with a slight border, and a white scrapbook to organize everything in. I sighed with relief and paid as quickly as I could, desperate to get out of this place. On any other day, it wouldn't have bothered me as much, but at that point I was just not in the mood. As soon as I was done I went back to my car as quickly as I could, dropping the bag onto the passenger seat as I sat. Just then I noticed the car from the day before parked down the road, and again I thought I saw someone sitting in it, though in the driver's seat. I started, then realized it was probably just a different car, someone else completely, and they were just waiting for someone to finish shopping. I chided myself for being so jumpy. Even if it was the same car, it was still a coincidence. Besides, it didn't even seem as if the person was looking in my direction this time. Shaking my head, I said, "Wow, you really need to find some way to calm down and wipe this stuff from your mind. It doesn't mean anything..." I let the sentence trail off as I pulled away from the curb and drove home.
***
I walked up to my room in relative silence, dropping off the supplies on my bed before I went to search through our multiple photo albums in the office downstairs. The problem was not going to be finding enough pictures, it would be narrowing them down. Uncle Charles liked to play the photographer, and so he had hundreds of photos of various things: family members, flowers, animals; you name it and we probably had a picture of it somewhere in the house. There were periods of my life where he would follow me around the house and snap pictures of everything I did, and sometimes did from several different angles. At first it was little disconcerting, but I got used to it soon enough. It was kind of nice, because he was paying attention to me - maybe a little too much, but at least he was.
I pulled a few albums I knew contained pictures of my parents off of the bookshelves in the office, setting them in a stack on the desk. It would take a few hours to flip through them all, I was sure, but I was prepared for that. Besides, it's not like I had anything else to do. It would be a relief to sit back for a while and just peruse. Once I got all the ones I wanted, I flipped open the most recent, to find the last picture. It would be the easiest to find, since I knew precisely where it was, and I figured I could go ahead and get it out of the way, so it might not be as hard to look at as after I had looked through all the others. I reached it and pulled it out of the plastic, running my fingers gingerly over it and being careful not to rip the edges any more than they already were. Quickly I turned to the scanner, turning it on and placing the picture on the glass. The machine whirred to life as I turned it on and hit the button, producing a perfect little copy that I could mess around with. I then put back the original and set to work sorting through all the others.
There were well over a thousand pictures of my parents total. Wedding pictures, vacations, holidays, normal days where they seemed to wonder why Uncle Charles had to come with his camera every time he visited. Pictures before I was there, pregnancy pictures throughout the months, pictures in the hospital, and on the way home from the hospital. My parents and I playing together, reading a book, my first birthday. All these memories were sorted and categorized into albums, snippets of the way life used to be and never would be again. I looked at their happy faces and felt sad that they had no idea what would happen to them. If there was only some way to go back and change time, then maybe I could help, or tell them. But I knew that was impossible. After I had found and scanned all the pictures I wanted, I gathered them together in a large pile and went upstairs to work on the book. Hoping vaguely that I could finish before my uncle was home, brought out the paper and began to plan.
I walked in the door and found myself barraged with flowered paper and ribbons, fancy stationary, and colorful stickers, all of which clashed terribly with my mood. I did a double-take as I walked in, trying to look for something that was, at the very least, a neutral color, a beige or off-white paper that I could use. It took me a while, but finally I spotted an aisle that didn't look too fancy, and I headed toward it. There was all I needed: a pair of good scissors, some cream paper with a slight border, and a white scrapbook to organize everything in. I sighed with relief and paid as quickly as I could, desperate to get out of this place. On any other day, it wouldn't have bothered me as much, but at that point I was just not in the mood. As soon as I was done I went back to my car as quickly as I could, dropping the bag onto the passenger seat as I sat. Just then I noticed the car from the day before parked down the road, and again I thought I saw someone sitting in it, though in the driver's seat. I started, then realized it was probably just a different car, someone else completely, and they were just waiting for someone to finish shopping. I chided myself for being so jumpy. Even if it was the same car, it was still a coincidence. Besides, it didn't even seem as if the person was looking in my direction this time. Shaking my head, I said, "Wow, you really need to find some way to calm down and wipe this stuff from your mind. It doesn't mean anything..." I let the sentence trail off as I pulled away from the curb and drove home.
***
I walked up to my room in relative silence, dropping off the supplies on my bed before I went to search through our multiple photo albums in the office downstairs. The problem was not going to be finding enough pictures, it would be narrowing them down. Uncle Charles liked to play the photographer, and so he had hundreds of photos of various things: family members, flowers, animals; you name it and we probably had a picture of it somewhere in the house. There were periods of my life where he would follow me around the house and snap pictures of everything I did, and sometimes did from several different angles. At first it was little disconcerting, but I got used to it soon enough. It was kind of nice, because he was paying attention to me - maybe a little too much, but at least he was.
I pulled a few albums I knew contained pictures of my parents off of the bookshelves in the office, setting them in a stack on the desk. It would take a few hours to flip through them all, I was sure, but I was prepared for that. Besides, it's not like I had anything else to do. It would be a relief to sit back for a while and just peruse. Once I got all the ones I wanted, I flipped open the most recent, to find the last picture. It would be the easiest to find, since I knew precisely where it was, and I figured I could go ahead and get it out of the way, so it might not be as hard to look at as after I had looked through all the others. I reached it and pulled it out of the plastic, running my fingers gingerly over it and being careful not to rip the edges any more than they already were. Quickly I turned to the scanner, turning it on and placing the picture on the glass. The machine whirred to life as I turned it on and hit the button, producing a perfect little copy that I could mess around with. I then put back the original and set to work sorting through all the others.
There were well over a thousand pictures of my parents total. Wedding pictures, vacations, holidays, normal days where they seemed to wonder why Uncle Charles had to come with his camera every time he visited. Pictures before I was there, pregnancy pictures throughout the months, pictures in the hospital, and on the way home from the hospital. My parents and I playing together, reading a book, my first birthday. All these memories were sorted and categorized into albums, snippets of the way life used to be and never would be again. I looked at their happy faces and felt sad that they had no idea what would happen to them. If there was only some way to go back and change time, then maybe I could help, or tell them. But I knew that was impossible. After I had found and scanned all the pictures I wanted, I gathered them together in a large pile and went upstairs to work on the book. Hoping vaguely that I could finish before my uncle was home, brought out the paper and began to plan.