Threads of a life
Pages from my grandfather’s photo album, with photographs carefully placed, have no captions to capture their significance. His dusty old service records, their edges eaten by silverfish, no longer have valuable context. When his house was sold, I collected them all and archived them for some future time when their presence would weave together a story, and their memories would not hurt so much.
Some 10 years later, when I reopened the box, the pain of his loss rushed back; but these pieces harked back to a time long before I was born. They
