My Grandad likes to tell stories, stories of people I'll never meet, he shows me photos of them, riding motorbikes, smiling into the camera, shy children and men in uniform. My great-grandmother had a camera, back before everyone carried one, back when they were rare, and she took those little black and white snaps, images of long ago, far away from the town where I was raised. My beloved Nanny, can't remember who the people are, she smiles but doesn't tell me stories. I tell her stories, stories of "remember when?" because there are holes in her memory, part of her has gone away and it took all the stories with it.
One day they'll both be gone, and who will tell me stories then?