Every year within hours of coming aboard, or days, depending on whether or not we’ve remembered to print the new photo before we arrive, we execute what in these times of computer jargon is called, a refresh of the four photographs in our little frame. It lives on our galley counter and inexplicably is the only place on the planet deemed fit to provide a public showing of our offspring.
When the frame was new, we only hand one grandchild, a tiny little thing who became a man, and a small fluffy granddog who we loved (almost) as much. Despite, almost two decades ago issuing a memo to our offspring and their spouses that they were to do nothing that would give rise to the birth of a child between May and September, our travels were interrupted on five further occasions so that we could be around for those happy events.
That frame is a constant reminder of how quickly life evolves, and now perhaps a reminder that we have aged just as much as the baby in the photo almost twenty years ago. The old photos are removed and placed in a makeshift album, that more than anything else provides an astonishing measure of the time we have been fortunate enough to spend on our peripatetic adventures.
It’s more than a symbol of family on the other side of the world, (after all they are just one small video call away these days), it’s a reminder of where we are and of the adventures we’ve had and the people we’ve been privileged to meet along the way.
Curiously the switching from old to new each year has become a subconscious ritual that forces a reflection on where we’ve been, a happily misty eyed revision of those old photographs, a wave of gratitude for all that we’ve experienced, and excitement for whatever is to come.
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