Every picture had a story—tie of memory to—and going through the still-framed spread, he listened as each was shared, revival through an image of a history restored to memory-life.
He thought of modern pictures, all he took in gather and collect as data, that he never went back to view. They were never printed, given body in world, but remained an ever energy drain of vast array of zeros and ones that formed an image on a screen: a digital reality having none in world, or means for replication, apart from computer interface.
He liked the film, time and cost and consideration that given to every image. Less was more. Less pictures, each meant more when returned to and seen again—different page and chapter of a same-life story. They were pictures taken, not for projection and for others to see, but for one’s self, one’s own saving for remembrance—and for the few with whom one wished to share, shown in communion of physical presence.
Old way meant more, and in age and world that seemed ever less to care, one held closer to the little that connected—old pictures, their living stories resurrected of an age and time ago.
Sitting at the table, each faded picture shown and shared, he listened to the histories restored in memory-life.