Old pictures

A couple of years ago, I scanned in a bunch of old pictures into the computer. I forgot where I got them, but I figured that Mom put them together. I recognized her handwriting in blue ink over the black, white, and sepia shadows of bygone years. Some of them I have scanned and labeled; others I just scanned in large bunches of eight to ten photos, thinking that some day, I would go through them and separate them into separate files. This week, during some off time, I found those old photos, and began to separate them. At first, I paid little attention to the blue writing, but then I realized that that was a mistake. The writing told the story of my family's life even better than the photos. Included in the photos were several photos of my mother in her teens. My mother was always a good looking woman (still is), and young for her age. She was forever being mistaken for my father's daughter instead of his wife. But when she was young, she was a knockout. As far as looks were concerned, on a scale of one to ten, she was about an eleven--dark raven hair, smoldering eyes, pouting lips. She could have been a model or a movie star. I always wondered how my dad snagged her. Anyway, there was one photo, probably from World War II, though I cannot be sure. In the photo, mom is seated on the ground, next to a flop-eared dog. She is holding a photo of my father. On the photo, barely legible, are words that look like "my love" or perhaps "my loves." Then there is my mother's name in the lower right hand corner. Over those words are words written in another hand, in block letters. There is one word--"Tootsey." I cannot be sure if the word refers to my mother or the dog. But the overall impression we get is of a woman who is proud of her man, and a man is proud of his woman. How deeply we forget the past! It's passions, its hopes, its worries, disappear quickly in the mists of time. But the are there, nevertheless--hidden by the screen of forgetfulness. We forget that old people were once old. Beauty fades with the calendar. So does strength. But love goes on and on. My parents, thank God are still alive--married for almost sixty years. They have grown old, which is the way of all things. But their love is still there, and the young lovers inside of them are still there, too. They are still lovers and always will be. Love does not fade. That thought keeps me warm at night