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“Do you see that picture there?” he asks me, his feeble finger pointing to two framed portraits on the wall near his window.
I turn and look at the photos—two aged photos of the same young, handsome man. The man’s thick, dark brown, blackish hair is slicked back. He wears a tan suit and an easy smile. The pictures are faded to a sepia hue because of decades of age. One is a close-up of his face, the other looks like it was done in a studio.
I say that I do see the photos, and I smile because he likes to point them out to me every time I visit.
A digital photo frame sits on his desk. Photos flicker through the frame one after another. He comments on some of the photos as they pass through the screen, describing the people, where the photo was taken. He points out certain ones with pride. When the photos repeat, he mentions the same comments again.
He’s not forgetful. I know that he knows he told me already who is in the photo. I know he knows he mentioned where it was taken. So why does he repeat himself?