I did not sleep well last night. Having spent most of yesterday going through Dads photos my mind was a whirl of images, much of which I'd either forgotten or never seen. Dad as a baby. Family group photos. My brother and I as chubby children. Art student days. Early photos of my companion and lover, Htebazile.
And photos of Mother.
Some of it wonderful, much of it deeply disturbing. I feel like I've spent much of my life (successfully) attempting to mature by escaping from who I was at home and here I am now confronting the fact that it is all part of me.
Then there is the uncomfortable sense that I have that I'm invading Dad's personal space by going through his memories without him.
And there is the renewed sense of loss. Dad took hundreds of wildlife photos. We can't keep them. There are images of friends and relatives, many whose names are lost. They have to go.
I'm now off to the recycling centre.
I wonder if there is a lesson in that?
