You sit still in the Christmas Eve of ’99, staring at me at my desk. As the years roll by, this photograph has faded along with my memory of you. I scanned in a digital copy in hopes of preservation, but that does not apply to the archive in our minds.
I’m afraid I’ll forget how you used to make porridge. I’m afraid I’ll forget the sound of your singing voice. I’m afraid I’ll forget all your sayings and quips which I laughed at growing up. Like the increasing distortion of these glitched images, everyday I forget a bit of you, and hold on dearly to photographs that can’t compare to the smell of your powder and nightly stout.