December 26th, 2006

Writing

The Holidays With Dad

December 25th


You would think after all these years we would have gotten used to it just being us for the holidays. Yet I still swear I can hear Dennis' laughter echoing in another room, or the sound of his huge feet clomping across the hard wood floors. For such a short boy he had huge feet. And ears.

He was like a puppy who never grew into his features.

Dennis was young enough it might have, one day. If the end hadn't come so soon for him.

Dad used to say that he thought Mum was with us every year, but I was so young when she died, I don't really remember her at all.

Maybe that's why I take pictures for a living, always scrambling to record memories so that I'll never have a chance to forget them like I forgot her.