Memories

I have spent some time re-boxing old photographs this week.  It turned out to be a really emotional process, revisiting memories and the people of the past.

One particular photograph is of JW when he is about 19 or 20, about eight years before I knew him.  He is lying flat out on a deserted train station platform, somewhere in the middle of Europe. It is a really sunny day and apart from his baseball boots, he is only wearing a pair of shorts, which he has bunched up around his hips to make the most of the hot weather.  He lies on his back, chest bare, eyes shut, soaking up the heat of the sun, using his backpack like a pillow to rest his head.  And I recognise so much of him in that photograph.  I recognise the rise of his ribs and his breast plate in his chest.  I know every detail, from the muscles in his thighs, to the shape of his hands.  His face is a bit thinner than it is now, but I recognise the same expression he has when he is sleeping and relaxed, and I want to jump into that photograph and lie down beside him in the sun, entangle my legs with his and rest my head on his shoulder.  But I don't know him, and he doesn't know me, and for some reason that makes me sad.