Photographs are not enough!

The old man flooded the house with photos. They were propped up on every available surface in the small, comfortable sitting room. They hung on the wall, filled the mantelshelf and side tables, and leaned precariously along the numerous bookshelves. There were more photos up in the bedroom and they were all of one subject and one subject only – photos of his love. He had rifled through drawers in the desk and in the boxes under the bed searching for them, at once furiously trying to hold on to her familiar presence and fearful lest he forget the face he knew so well and loved.

There were pictures with her family and friends – such warmth; there were portraits for theatre programmes – so beautiful; characters she had played –such passion; holiday snaps from the Welsh hills and the Scottish Isles – so carefree; walks in the woods – quietly relaxed; at home – so happy; with the grandchildren – loving, amused and concerned; so much life and so much love flowing out yet separated from him by death. With more searching and excavation the pictures became younger and younger – the face fresh and eager. She had even looked beautiful in uniform.

Time passes.

There are not so many pictures now, only some very special ones. She is there in the room but her presence is in the host of memories – memories of her love, her laughter, her pain, her passion, her worries, her insights, her dark times, her amusement, her work, her concern for others, her intellect and her love of life. As these memories live then the treasured face appears, and it is much more than a series of still photos from the past.