When I was last in Belgrade, I visited my parents’ remaining friends. Some of them I saw twice. Gordana Ristić was among them. Her husband, Milorad, died last year. Both times she showed me the albums of photographs she had been making for her son, her daughter-in-law, and their son. So far, she has made a dozen or so, and the pile is growing. Not at all well, she spends a lot of time selecting the photographs, arranging them on each page, and typing everything she remembers about the people in them in the spaces in between. Her main motivation is to give her grandson, who has lived abroad most of his life, a sense of his roots. From time to time she shed a tear as would she flipped through the pages of her albums. When I was leaving for the second time, she asked me to send her a few pictures of my parents, among the dearest friends she and Milorad had ever had. There is a place reserved for them in one of the albums. I promised to send them to her, but I somehow managed to do nothing about it. Until today, that is. I went to the bedroom that used to be my father’s, opened a cabinet drawer stuffed full of family memorabilia, and quickly selected three photographs. The first is from a boat trip in the Adriatic just after my parents were married in 1936; the second is of my mother in Reading in 1995 or 1996; and the third is of my parents sometime in 1998 or 1999, not long before he ended up first in hospital and than in nursing home. Even before I closed the drawer, I was already weeping.