I should mention that this post is particularly aimed at my brother.
During my brief return home to my parents, I had the opportunity (will also) of "falling" into the box of photographs. I do not know why. Probably history to remember everything that had been lost. At first, very old pictures. Me, blonde, trying to explore the dark corners of the bathroom. Photos of the wedding of my parents. Photos my father, bearded, working at James Bay.
And here. A picture of my brother with the Grand Schtroupmf. On wheels. Damn he wanted one! Good memories, really. My brother following me, step by step, in the hope of obtaining the coveted figure. A big smile on his face. And I truly too stupid to leave him.
In all, I kept a forty photos. Disparate memories. But all good memories.
fate would have it. I realize I have absolutely no recollection of the sad moments in my life. It's probably better that way.
Without pictures, it is much more easy to move on. Besides, everything is going very well. Oddly, really well too.
My stomach problems disappeared. And though I keep a certain sadness, I now know that communication is what is most important in life.
And that, I'll never need any photo to remember.
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