I found a slender beige packet of 35 photographs yesterday adrift within the morass of cards, bright yellow Kodak envelopes and scroll tubes contained with the trunk. By that point I was getting burned out on empty interior shots of houses we had lived in and the endless parade of birthday pictures so it was with relief and delight that I unearthed these. I believe they document my mother’s first visit to England to meet my father’s parents. They’re of an afternoon spent visiting a ruined castle and walking along the hills that lined a cove, and though the sepia tones make it look like a warm day everybody is bundled in coats and jackets. Depicted above are my parents, looking about the age I’m at now. These images gave me pause, a glimpse into a past when everything still seemed possible, when the future lay before them uncharted, unchecked, and they’d been married but two or three years. I think of what came after these photographs, and grow still, contemplative, and can’t help but reflect on the unraveling nature of time.