Can you believe that we're all standing here? Six of us, varying in height and balance.
Mark is walking over to the photo album. He finds the picture of the two of you. Can you see him? Feel him? I think he has some memories tucked away in his four-year old brain. When I remind him of moments past, he focuses on my eyes. His head skillfully positioned, and he is, I'm certain of it, listening. These stories matter to him. You matter to him.
You and Brian overlapped one day. A eerily perfect 24 hour cross-over. Brian, fading in. You, fading out. And both of you in the same building. Remember the picture we brought to you? He was so new, his eyes were still shut. I like to think that he was looking at a picture of you. His mind, coming to form, plowing through a familial rolodex, perusing images of those that came before him. Maybe that's what really happens at birth, a pre-loaded picture show begins, rooting each and every one of us to our ancestors.
And you're not seeing double. They're too young to understand. But they have the same cushy, padded photo album that's been passed down from child to child, and they see you. They see you holding Mark. They bite on the plastic protecting the pictures. It's just their way of exploring the world around them, of making meaning. I like to think it's there way of connecting. To you.