When a person dies it’s like time stops for him or her. Age and suffering does no longer reach. The photo on the wall will remain untouched and we have our memories to support it.
Like that was the reality.
Memories weaken quickly. The person on the photo becomes an unknown face.
I do some family researching. And I look at an ancestor, only surviving child out of six.
He had a twin sister, who died at birth. His older brother died at the age of ten. He himself was eight, so he must have memories from this. After him followed one stillborn child and one who died within days. His youngest brother died at the age of eight.
There are no stories to tell about this family. All that is left is the church’s records with their cold facts about what happened. No memories, no photos or tokens; Just facts.
I’m not afraid of changes and I don’t want to freeze time and avoid death. But I want there to be stories. I don’t want tragedies and joy to pass unnoticed into oblivion. I want to hear his story about his family and how it affected him to watch his brothers suffer and die. I want to listen to his parents, about their great grief they must have carried.
I feel sadness when I think about how little a life really means in the long run. And a death means even less.
Not even a photo remains of this family. None was ever taken. It was before the era of frozen moments.