I’ve just spent an hour and a half, out on the balcony, going through a shoebox full of old, b/w photos. Found it downstairs, in my brother’s apartment, which also is our Mum’s old apt. The whole place feels like time has stood still. He hasn’t changed much there — it’s not in his nature.
I looked at all those pictures … in some I recognised our mum, in others, our dad, but not a word or a name on the back. In very few, my dad had written stuff like ‘Brussels 1935’ but no names of the people … he was at sea until 1945, so they were from all corners of the world.
A few were pretty good quality, and also like a ‘documentation’ of an era … where you could see an old telephone and a phonebook on a table, for example … many from the hospital where Mum worked … her friends and co-workers, the clothes they wore at the time …. so different compared to health care workers these days.
Most of all I wonder … what were theirs thoughts … their dreams?! It feels as if I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t know my father, but that’s only natural as he died when I was two…