The photograph was taken on the steps of the entrance to the house that my parents were renting at the time. It shows my grandparents, who had come to visit them and also to see their new grandson. Which is me. My grandfather is wearing a suit and tie and holds me aloft for the picture. It feels like I am a trophy that a winning sportsman is showing to everyone. Next to him is his wife, my grandmother who has a small handbag on her arm and is holding a pair of gloves. Her hat looks very much of that time. Next to them is my mother and she is smiling, perhaps glad her parents are visiting and perhaps she is also glad she now has a son. Which is me. My father is the person taking the picture. I remember him as always having at least two cameras with him when we went on holiday.

When I look at the photo, I think about how my grandfather was fighting in a divisive civil war by the time he was twenty-one, with brutal and ruthless decisions to make. Perhaps not talking about that was a way of living with it. I think about how my grandmother disappeared while on a trip to New York to go on a bender which lasted a few days. I think about my mother and my father and what stories about them that they would like to be told.  While I look at the photo, I realise the obvious thing. That of those there, on that day all those years ago, I am the only one left alive. So, I suppose that there is just one person who gets to tell whatever stories there are to be told. Which is me.