It held many memories. The time when she had picked it up from an old bookstore, taking it to her newly wedded husband who in turn cooed over it like it was a newlyborn baby. They had handed their photos over to it, trusting it to keep those sacred moments locked within its palms.
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Three years later, the firm cry of a newborn filled the air, bringing along with it a troop of people. More pictures were taken, more sacred moments to remember, so they took it to the beloved photo album which they only remembered when they needed to keep a picture safe.
This newly born was a blessing because almost every day for a year, the lady of the house came looking for the photo album, talking to it as a companion, giving it more sacred moments to keep for her growing family, thereby making it hold its head high and hunch its shoulders with pride.
It was soon to end as she didn't come to look for the album after her child's first birthday.
Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and the album sat lonely on a dusty shelf, wishing someone would stop by to say "Hello" but there was none.
So it nursed a sob which developed into torrents of tears, the liquid from its eyes seeping into the pictures and washing away some beautiful faces, causing some of them to stick together.
Seeing what had happened, the album cringed in fear knowing the lady of the house would come with several swearings when she found out what it had done, but since no one was coming to check out the memories they said they didn't want to forget, it relaxed into a sober mood.
She finally came back to the photo album when Christmas approached and just like it had predicted, there were a lot of swearings. She called her husband who the photo album had learned was bearing "Jim".
"Just take a look at all our photos, they're gone, Jim! What are we going to do now?"
She flipped through the pages and stopped at one where she had been smiling into the face of the chubby red-haired bundle in her arms.
"And this one with Angel is gone too! My poor baby.." she nuzzled her nose into the smeared photograph as Jim rubbed her shoulders. The photo album had come to notice that he was a silent man.
Just when it seemed the fuss over the smeared photos had subsided, she suggested they burn the album. "After all, it's of no use to us. All our photos are bad!"
Its eyes began to fill with tears when she said so.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it" but no one could hear it because, to them, it was just "This thing" as it heard them address it the first time it was brought to the house.
It was Jim who saved it, pleading with her to take out the spoilt pictures and save the rest. Then he proceeded to take the album into the sun to get rid of the dampness.
Time, it knew, had wings. It wished it had wings as well, so it could fly back to the bookstore where the old man with round glasses perched on his nose would pick it up and dust it with a damp towel every morning.
Soon, the baby who had only been in swaddling clothes and a rocking bed was trotting around the house making cute, babbling sounds.
She found the album one of those days she was moving about to collect her parents' items and hide them causing her mother to search for things daily in endless frustration.
She was nothing like her mother.
When she picked it up, she flipped through the pages, even the empty ones, completely captivated by the memories they held even if she didn't know or remember any.
From then on, she stopped by it every single day.
The photo album soon looked out for the gangly red-haired that came to it every day since she was a year old. She was young but she knew how to show love to the people around her. The album had seen how she rubbed the head of the dog affectionately, how she sang to the rag doll her aunt gifted her some time, and how she took time out to talk to the air, forming a companion from it.
Soon, she too stopped to come. The album knew they made her sit in the parlor, at that instrument with black and white keys all afternoon, playing sweet and terrible melodies. He knew because a picture showing her beautiful set of white teeth to the camera and her skinny fingers on the instrument keys was hurriedly inserted into one of his arms.
The next time she came, she was in dire sorrow. Cloaked in black, she had the pictures of herself and Jim in her arms. As she arranged them into the photo album, tears leaked from her eyes, blurring her vision.
The album had witnessed Jim getting thinner by the day and coughing out phlegm and blood consistently while the lady of the house sat at his side, a faraway look in her eyes, mopping his head absentmindedly.
After about a month, it stopped seeing Jim altogether, and now, here was Angel, photos from the cemetery in her hands, weeping softly.
She soon returned to the photo album every day, running her fingers lightly over her late father's face, caressing the photo album in the process. She never failed to stop by for five whole years.
When she moved to college, she took it with her, placing it to sit there on her desk. Her proud companion, the one who held all her fond memories and had never left a day, for sixteen years.
