Easter Sunday, early nineties, a courtyard somewhere in the city where we lived before the move. My mother in a yellow dress I completely forgot existed until this week when it came back to me out of nowhere. My father holding something — I think a basket, I think it's the basket — squinting into the sun.

I'm not in the frame. I was probably the one holding the camera, which tracks completely 😄

Memory does something specific to you in your forties that it doesn't do earlier 🕯️ It stops being a filing system and starts being something more like weather. Arriving unannounced. Changing the atmosphere of an ordinary afternoon without asking permission. That photograph found me this Easter without me going anywhere near the box.

What I noticed, sitting with it, wasn't sadness 🌸 It was something quieter. A recognition that the life I'm living right now is also happening. Is also the thing someone will remember later with this same quality of light around it. The Tuesday grocery shop. The particular way my apartment smells in April. The friend I called last week about nothing important.

This is the material. Right now. Already 💛

Easter has always been about what continues beyond what seemed finished. I feel that differently at this age — not abstractly, but in my actual chest, on an ordinary Wednesday, looking for a photograph I didn't need to find.

What ordinary moment from your present do you think you'll miss most when it's eventually behind you? ✨