Photo Albums

There’s forty-seven of them.

Most of them are the little ones, the kind you put a weekend in. Spring break at Panama City Beach, or a hiking trip where everyone is muddy to the hips, or a day at the park when it was windy and there were so many different kites.

Some of them are bigger, the kind you put a month or two or even a whole season in. The kind that start with the leaves turning gold and then red and that end with piles of wrapping paper and empty boxes. The kind that start with flowers budding and hair blown over faces and that end with family vacations before school starts.

Moments of life compressed into four by six windows.

All of mine are empty. All except two. Two albums, the big kind, stuffed full of windows back into evenings spent at basketball games and afternoon walks to the coffee shop and the days in the salty Gulf spray. And maybe those two make up for the rest of the forty-seven.

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