Vestiges

I sometimes look around our house and think about the things that Baz will notice: that's my parents. I'm not just talking about pictures. I'm talking about the boxes in which our wedding rings were delivered, a place that was once in a movie and now no longer exists; the many, many cards we've exchanged over the years; the basket in which our wedding programs and broken glass still lie, all these years later.

And the pictures. Oh, the pictures. Costa Rica. Europe. Our wedding, held at the former Cafe de la Paz and current Philz, where I go all the time after dropping him off at daycare. Pictures of him, so many: when he was first born, when we took him home, at St. Orres for our anniversary, at his bris.

What will he think when he looks at them?