I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
It’s a small regret, not a turning point, and yet it bothers me.
Why didn’t anyone — me, for instance — sit down with my mother and identify the people in this album?
My father showed me the album one day this summer. “This is over a hundred years old,” he said, extending to me the small book with a floppy leather cover. It was neatly tied on one side with what looks like raffia. Did they have that back then?
I took it and began gently turning its pages. “Who are these people?” I asked my Dad.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think they’re your mother’s grandparents.”
Yes, one woman bore a striking resemblance to my aunt, but I knew it wasn’t her because of the dates in the album.
“I asked your mother if she could identify any of the people, but she couldn’t,” he continued.
Of course she couldn’t. She has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t know my name, and hasn’t for over a year. My father, however, is either in denial about the whole thing or one of the most optimistic people ever. He continues to ask her opinion of things, or for her to identify things, or simply for back-and-forth conversation that makes sense. She is able to do none of these.
I had forgotten about the album until Deirdre brought it home last week.
“This is so cool!” she said excitedly. “It’s over a hundred years old!”
My father had sent it with her for me to scan and enlarge some of the pictures which I was happy to do.
Still, the question remains, who are these people? There is no one left to identify them, though.
That I regret.
Thanks to the Daily Prompt: Regrets, I’ve Had a Few