The day after my father's funeral found me sitting in his chair, looking over his bookcases. Dust glazed the upper shelves. My eyes blinked free of tired tears to follow the light's dance from gilded spine to gilded spine.

Each wore the hazy testament to years of disuse, all save one.

I remembered this volume. I remember my father and mother paging through it, smiling, talking and pointing at photos within. It was an older style album, where the pages were simple black pages with gummed corners affix to hold the photos.

I remembered my parents flipping though it, laughing and hugging. I remember the last time they opened it, the day she died. Never again did I see my father touch it.

Yet, here it stood, dust-free. I rose, I walked, I reached for it and paused. My resolve won over my reserve. With surprisingly steady hand, I tipped it from the shelf and sat down with it.

The pages were empty. The little white corners remained, but the pages laid empty, little rectangles slightly darker where photos once were against a near-black field.

Every page was empty.

It's flabby. I'm tired. Advice on what to nip, what to tuck is, as always, welcomed (as is any other commentary.)

Oh, and a title. This needs a better title.