Rainy afternoons

I spent yesterday afternoon lazing around at home. There were dark clouds in the skies and a drizzle had just begun. And the grey clouds weren't angry ones. They were mellow. I really like the colour grey. Not the deep, intimidating grey but the soft, gentle one. Like this.
Anyway, I was actually trying to brainstorm ideas to celebrate my mother's birthday. (Brainstorm durng a storm he he he). And that somehow led me to the shelf full of photo albums from when I was a kid. I even found a photo albums from 1979, when my father my in Secondary 4.
I really did spend a long long time looking through all the photos, with a couple of albums laid out on the floor each time. And these old photos from the late 1970s and 1980s of both my parents made me think. A LOT. Because the 2 people in the photos, my 20-something mother and my father, had no idea that they would be where they are today.
I'm sure my mother didn't see herself NOT in the art industry. There were photos of her standing proudly in front of many of her different artworks. From paint to pencil, some of these works hang silently on the walls in the living room, faded and tired. Yet they had so much life when they were fresh. Fresh and young like my mother was.
Photos of my father included those of him with his small collection of guitars, each very precious to this young man. Each eventually being painfully sold away.
There were many unfamiliar faces in the photos, my parents' old friends and classmates. These people now have almost no significance in my parents' lives. My father didn't even remember any of their names. He referred to one as "this guy sold me my guitar", the other as "the indian guy". No name, no identity.
Now, what if, when I grow up and grow older, I forget. Do you see where I'm getting to? What if life turns out to be something I never dreamed of and all those who meant so much are reduced to vague terms and descriptions. I don't want to forget.