Every village home hides a box of old photographs, each one a relic of time. The boxes evolve with the years, just like the images inside, which fade as memories do. Black-and-white photos crack at the edges, their hues stubbornly enduring, while color snapshots blur, perhaps because our eyes, now spoiled by sharp resolutions, judge the old ways harshly. But I prefer to see it this way: as we forget the names of faces in those frames, their features soften. When the moment they captured slips entirely from memory, the foreground blends into the background, and we lose why someone…
In a Moment (or, One Moment of Inattention Was Enough for Venus in Cancer)
