He rolled up to the table with his morning coffee, intent to farm the rows of his mind. Such poor aging soil for the once-beautiful moments captured on film in stacks before him.

His hand shook as he slowly lifted another photo, trying to focus. The fashion familiar, the fraternal bonds fond, but the faces -- the faces --

He cursed the faulty memory he tried to furbish. Each photo newly marked and added to that stack sickened him. Failure wasn’t fatal, but forgetting was painful -- once intimates filling his life with joy now reduced to half-remembered, barely readable names.

Why was time so cruel? One day he might forget this exercise, forget what he had forgotten -- would he find peace then? For now he pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, his glasses sliding off, and wept for the memories that died too early on the vine.

(Word count: 146. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)