thank God you were more stone than cheese: with age your edge came off. although firm your shape remained, its contents softened, because discipline undiscerned like any apple also bruises. mirth is not what we have you down for in our big, square books; still I swear everyday more clearly I hear the tinkers’ cartwheel rumble of your happy laughter. never will we all be together to take the decisive picture; we trickle on folding addendums into the album. but each page points back to you, even when you’re not there; each page is our way (very little yet not lost) of showing thanks.