Looking in that photo album, I see--

It's a battered old thing. Well I suppose you wouldn't really call it old, maybe ten years give or take one or two, but it certainly looks to bear the marks of age and use; though what has marked it most is its time spent in storage. It's a rare thing now that I pull this old tome out, the once white pages are yellowed with age and water stains. The adhesive that held the pictures in place has lots it's grip on some and precious memories spill onto the ground.

Once I gather up all the fallen pictures I begin the laborious process of placing them back in their proper places and as I do so I take a proverbial trip back in time. I see the faces of people I haven't seen since I was eighteen, smiling pictures of youth at summer camp: Tall skinny Brandi grins back at me from her seat on a picnic table. David falls back laughing from an onslaught by Corey in one of many pillow fights. Meghan and her farther, Pastor Mark smile calmly as they sit on the dinning hall benches, a summer sky as blue as I have ever seen it peeks over grass that is greener than any I have seen in recent memory. I place these pictures back with almost exaggerated care and realise that I have forgotten some of the names of these smiling faces, that through the ever constant march of time I have somehow misplaced these dear people.

I set the last picture in place then gently turn the page.

My brother smiles back at me, seated in my mother's lap in our first home, a beat up old rickety trailer we once rented out in Orrington. My mother is younger here, her hair fuller and the only wrinkles I can see are the ones caused by her smile. My brother is laughing, waving his arms in the air at something I can't quite make out and the rocking chair they both sit in surely rocks with the motion of the moment. Bellow is a picture I haven't seen in years, a young boy perched atop a log, elbow propped up on a kneed and his face resting in one hand. I almost mistake the discoloration on the knee for a stain till I remember it was actually grape juice, his blond hair is a tangle and in sharp contrast with the hazy black and white background. To think my hair would turn out as dark as it has.

Again I turn the page.

I see my father peering over his shoulder at me as he cooks in an unfinished kitchen. I can't help but smile at the contrast between the long sleeved tie dye shirt and the grizzled back woods beard he's fond of wearing. Steam rises from the stove top and catches the overhead lights in an almost surreal way and only serves to accent the half finished cabinets to his right and the plywood floor on which he stands.

I close the album and set it aside.