I retrieved a few photo albums from my ex-marital home.

Then I made the mistake of opening one. Then another. And another.

Most photos are of my boys. The camera has followed their arrival into the world, first smile, tooth, walk, play, friends, toys, places and family. The photos freeze young lives at the best moments. So far.

I am displaced. Rattled. Suddenly raw.

I thought only I held the memories, only I saved the smiles.

Arrogant bitch.

Only time does, and it leaves everything behind.

There are photos of a pretty me; of many years ago, of another life.

I barely know her. I barely ever did. Nowadays I make an effort to talk to the woman, not the ex-wife, or mother, or free spirit.

She still surprises me. More than people ever do.

I lean towards her and stretch my hand, but she won't take it. There she stands, in a light which never fades, in legs which will never grow old, sporting a face which will not lace with wrinkles.

If I could bottle my children, I would. If I could bottle their memories of me, I would.

But all I am left with is photos.

Arrogant bitch.