It was Pop-Pop that worried me more. He has dementia, and often seems unaware of his surroundings. We had one encouraging exchange. Musing that his father had been dead for fifty years, Pop-Pop commented that, “We’re still here, aren’t we?” Our longest conversation during my visit, however, was about donkeys. I can’t help thinking he was recounting a memory from his youth, and he just couldn’t communicate it in a way I understood. Maybe he was just talking about donkeys.

One memory returns. Grandma used to bottle apricots. She would do a batch every year, and give a few jars to everyone in the family. Whenever I went to visit, we had apricots and ice cream for dessert. Afterwards, I felt warm, loved, and happy. Ice cream and apricots are my enduring memory of my grandmother.

Since Wednesday, I’ve realised that, for me, photography is about two things: beauty, and memory. Every good picture must possess a certain aesthetic quality that draws you in. What often lifts a picture past ‘good’, however, is memory: you might be in the picture; perhaps you recognise where it was taken; maybe you just see something in it that you identify with – the subject’s anger, fear, pain. Identifying with another is memory of a sort. You recall what it feels like to be in their situation, and you empathise with them.

The photos you see were taken at Pop-Pop’s 90th birthday party. Those pictured, and many more, gathered to celebrate his life. Not only that, they gathered to celebrate the life he had shared with grandma. While these pictures are not the best I will ever take, they remind me of one of the most beautiful people in my life.

Four days before grandma died, I had the opportunity to take her picture for (what would be) the last time. I didn’t. “It didn’t feel right,” I said then. I regret that now. She had a long, wonderful life, but I can’t help wishing I had just one more picture to remember it, and her, by. My advice? Preserve these memories, and cherish them, or their absence may haunt you.