In my room I’ve got an entire album of photos of Dad. It feels rather weird to have so many images of a person who’s no longer alive. We’ve got Dad on video too. I think it’s a bit scary listening to his voice. My dad had a really deep voice.
Maybe watching videos of people who aren’t here any more, or who’ve passed on as Grandma puts it, should be made illegal. It doesn’t feel right to spy on the dead.
I can also hear my own voice on some of the videos. It’s squeaky and high-pitched. It reminds me of a little chick. That was how it was in those days: Dad was the bass and I was the treble. In one of those videos I’m perched on my dad’s shoulders trying to snatch the star from the top of the Christmas tree. I’m not much more than a year old, but I very nearly manage to yank it off.