Until that day, I always loved the black and white photographs best. They were somehow more grand, more pure, more sacred, softer, more graceful, than their colorful counterparts. They spoke to me of possibility, of how beautiful life could be, with a little luck and magic.

My favorite was worn and tattered with age and over-handling, but I loved each and every battered angle, clung to them like a life-vest in the stormy seas of the wreckage of my family.

She was so lovely then. Her eyes shone with happiness as she gazed into my father’s eyes, her snowy veil tossed over his head, creating a cheek-to-cheek sanctuary for their mutual adoration. When things got bad, I clung to how beautiful a moment could be.

But magic doesn’t exist. Not for her, and not for me. She proved that to me the day she left. Now they’re only a stack of old photographs, a testament to how foolish a child’s dreams can be.