Once I sat in a boat and rode through the canals of an old russian town. I sat opposite an old woman and her grandson who were talking russian in the most exciting way I’ve ever heard. The boy pointed at every building we drove by. The boy waved at every person that stood on the river-side. He was turning his head from the left to the right and back. There were a lot of buildings and people, you should know. The grandmother took a picture with a very old analog camera of one of the other boats that passed by. She took a picture of one of the churches we all saw. She refused to take a picture of her grandson who begged her to do so. He begged her innumerable times.
I stared at them and finally pulled out my camera. I looked through it at the boy and pulled the trigger. The boy looked at me and then started to wave at passersby again. Shortly afterwards the grandmother fell asleep. I looked at the picture, then at the sun.
The boy might be 12 now. His name might be Yurij. He might be a big fan of hockey. His grandmother might be still alive. He might be 15cm taller by now. The boy will never see this picture.