You're Still in My Camera Roll

I went looking for a receipt and the camera roll just kept going. That's how it happens. You scroll up to find one thing and a whole year falls open in your hands.

There you are. June, last year. Squinting because I told you to look at the sun, which was a dumb thing to say. You're mid-laugh at how dumb it was.

I didn't delete any of them. I told myself I would, eventually, when it stopped meaning anything. It hasn't stopped, it just got quieter. Now you live in the part of my phone I only find by accident.

I do the math without wanting to. A year. The me in that photo had no idea this was the last good summer of it. Just standing there in the sun, annoyed about a receipt I don't even remember now.

It's strange, the things that outlast the reason you kept them.

I keep scrolling up. I don't know what I'm looking for anymore. I think I just wanted to see the date.