It has been quiet in this neck of the woods.

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.

I talk to myself quite a lot these days.

Oh, I know what it must look like.

But, as I go round my daily – things – chores (don’t like that) – what-I-dos (that ‘dos’ doesn’t look like a plural ‘do’ but something I should have learned long ago – maybe ‘things’ have moved on since then . . .)

Mm.  Talking to myself helps reinforce questions, answers, important thoughts . . . (lots of ‘dot, dot, dot’s these days, also – what can it mean?

Those poles, those poles . . .

Just playing around.  Memories.