The Friend Within

My daughter brought this photo album. She said it holds memories.

Do you agree with her?

I see the faces, but it’s hard to remember…

“Let me brush your hair,” I said softly, as the black and white photos in front of us seemed to come alive.

Your midnight hair has faded with time. Now it is white, like a blank canvas waiting to be filled. This photo album holds more than memories; it holds a lifetime.

“See this picture?”

“She is beautiful! It must be her wedding day. She looks so excited. Her long, fitted white dress makes her look like an angel.”

“And what about the husband?” I asked gently.

“I don’t know… he seems familiar.”

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

“He has very nice chocolate skin,” she said, a laugh slipping out before she could stop it.

I smiled. “Yes, his cocoa skin and curly black hair caught my attention too. His big smile, his great sense of humor, he was a wonderful husband.”

“Do you know them?” she asked, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“I do,” I whispered, brushing her thin white hair. “I know their entire love story… because I am part of it.”

She turned the page. The next photo showed the couple sitting on an old burgundy sofa, smiling, their eyes sparkling, with their first baby in her arms.

“They had a child quickly,” she said.

“Yes. True love never waits.”

“And look, they had more kids,” she said, pointing at a picture of the couple with four little children standing between them.

“I remember these kids,” she said with joy. “They used to come to my house all the time. The eldest daughter was in love with a boy from the neighborhood, her mother always calling for her. And the boy… he always liked to study, a very intelligent little one. And the two little girls, they were so well behaved.”

“I remember them too,” I said softly, setting the brush on the dresser. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I noticed my own hair had turned white as well. Where did the time go? I sat beside my friend to continue looking at the pictures.

The next photo showed a small white house with a wide porch crowded with people, adults and children filling every corner.

“Look, you’re in this picture.”

“Is that me?” she asked, confused, her eyes locked on the page. Silence hung between us.

“My memory comes and goes. Sometimes I forget.”

I paused. “My friend,” I said softly, “that’s why I come to visit sometimes, to help you remember, in those moments when the world feels distant. The years may have passed, and your memory slips, but I like to think that I am always here… you just sometimes don’t hear me. But you are the strong woman in these pictures. You still are the rock of this family, the one who, with her wedding dress and love story, created generations to come. There is nothing in this life I don’t know about you.”

“Is that so?” she asked.

“Yes. We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember, though sometimes my own memory wanders,” I chuckled softly. “But I’ll do my best to stay present, here with you. Forgive me if I don’t come all the time; sometimes the memories are fragmented, and I struggle to piece them together.”

A ray of sunlight entered through the glass window, illuminating the room.

“Do you remember Sunday mornings?” I asked. “We used to cook for the whole family, our kids, the grandchildren, their partners, and even some neighbors would join us.”

“Those were good days,” she said, still staring at the family picture. “I always loved to cook. I worked in restaurants with my husband, that’s where I learned the best recipes.”

I listened as she spoke about food, her favorite recipes, the scent of roasted garlic, and the best way to cook steak. Her light skin had wrinkled, the cooking days behind her. The hands that once stirred pots, held children, and offered comfort were now marked by age and sunspots. But her nails gleamed bright red, a small reminder of how much she enjoyed taking care of herself, dressing up, wearing makeup, even putting on soft perfume before bed. Her lips had told countless stories, some kept private; her heart had always been full of love.

“I don’t want to look at these pictures anymore,” she said, frustration creeping in.

“Let’s go, my friend,” I said, helping her rise from the bed. “Let’s sit on the porch.”

We walked through the living room. I glanced at the photos and knickknacks lining the walls, reminders that this house was once the center of joy, a factory of memories.

“Sit here, my friend. This is your chair, the one you’ve used for over sixty years. These are your flowers, your little handmade houses hanging on the walls. On this porch, we’ve seen rain and storms, sunsets and stars, sunrises and sunshine. Do you remember the neighbors who would stop by for a chat, a quick hello, or a simple joke?” I asked. “Those were bright days, filled with laughter and conversation.”

“You were always the first to crack a joke,” I said. “I still see glimpses of your humor; it comes out when memory doesn’t fail.”

“My memory has been in and out. Sometimes I forget,” she said.

“I know, my friend,” I replied.

“Sometimes I forget. My memory has been in and out,” she repeated.

“I will hold the memories for you,” I promised, placing my hand on her shoulder. “I will remind you of your great life, if you let me. Because, I have always been both, your friend and your memory.” I looked deep into her eyes and hugged her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

I laughed softly. “I’m your friend… and a part of you.”

“But I don’t remember you.”

“Come,” I said. “Let’s go back to your room.”

We opened the heavy white screen door and stepped inside.

“Where are we going?”

“To your room. I want to show you something.”

She stayed quiet, following slowly. She entered her room and stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself.

“Do you see me now? Don’t you remember me?”

“I don’t know… you seem familiar.”

I picked up a pair of earrings from the dresser. “See these? A gift from your daughter. This is your favorite hairbrush, and this jewelry box…” I paused, searching for the right words. Silence filled the air once more.

“But who are you?” she asked again.

“Look at us in the mirror. Look deeper.”

“Mom! Who are you talking to?”

“I’m talking to my friend.”

“Mom, there’s no one here.”

Still staring at her reflection, she whispered, “Who are you?”

“Mom… it’s you. It has always been you.”