I have spent some time sorting out old photographs that have come from my husband’s side of the family.
There are so many of them. This is not the first time I have gone through them but, in one of the boxes, there was a note I had left for myself that I had only so far gone through ‘this lot’.
Dozens of tiny snaps stuffed into envelopes.
More that one set of sets – that had been developed and sent to other family members – and came back again to us (me) as they died off.
I am a repository.
I am not delighted with this task, these images – I suspect I am talking of something else now – I am – some deep memories have started to surface during this – I’ll be here forever, it seems, with these.
But there is no other way through it.
I am resentful.
Let’s get real.