It’s the photographs not taken that keep me awake at night, the memories of people and places not yet long forgotten, but quickly heading down that path. My mind recently has been wandering to the home of my grandparents, a place where I spent many days as a child.

I often return to this home in my dreams, the only way I can return since my grandfather died. My last nocturnal visit was during the time of a family Christmas, the Christmas tree alit in the darkened living room, a glowing fireplace and hearth adorned with freshly cut spruce garland. I recall looking over at my grandfather, fussing with something in the kitchen, and wishing to myself to take a photo and document the moment, capture this one point in time and ensure that there would always be that unfaded memory to look back upon. But I took no photo. And I fear every return visit will lack more and more detail until finally there is no longer a place to visit.