The package was waiting for me when I came home from work.

My mum had mentioned she was going to send it. Some stuff she'd found, she said. It happens. She often sends me things from the local paper. Clips about family or some Northern Irish sporting story she thinks I might be interested in, some family photos. That kind of thing. I didn't give it much thought to be honest. But this… This was different. This had me in bits.

Old cards, old newspaper clippings, old photographs. My childhood in a padded envelope. Here I was, aged 10 or 11, a member of a Boys' Brigade quiz team [1]. Here were all my reports from public speaking competitions. (I was, according to the examiner, "a little rushed". I think he was being kind. I remember going at light speed just to get off the stage as soon as humanly possible.)

And then there were the cards. Birthday cards. From my first birthday. Somehow near mint, 50 years after they were chosen and signed and sent. My mum had kept them in perfect condition all these years. Cards from people I didn't know, cards from my grandparents, who are long gone. A card from my Aunt Sharley before she was married or had kids [2]. And one from my Uncle Tommy. My Uncle Tommy who would take me and my sister walks and buy us wine gums, who encouraged my love of pop music and convinced me to be a Spurs supporter. My uncle who had an epileptic fit and fell into the River Bann while walking home from work one evening and drowned. That night was the first time, I think, I ever saw my mother cry. My mum, the strongest, most capable woman I knew [3].

But the kicker was in one of those old paper sleeves you get photos back from Boots in. Two pictures. The first is of me and daughter number one. She would have been a few months old. I'm trying to lift her up and she's either laughing or crying at the bottom of the frame, almost falling out of it. The second is of me at a similar age. A few months old slipping out of the frame as my dad lifts me. Life repeating and repeating.

There's a photograph of my dad I've never seen before. My dad in his 20s, curly hair and a big smile. Looking young. Younger than I ever remember him. My dad. Young and alive. My dad, also no longer here. Sometimes life is just a catalogue of what we've lost.

I'm looking at these two pictures when J comes into the room. "What's wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing," I say. "Or everything. I'm not sure."

FOOTNOTES

[1] "Will your anchor hold in the storms of life …"

[2] Kids who are grown-ups now. One of them once went out with J's sister. Small world.

[3] Of course I didn't know that many women then. Even so …

Twitter: @teddyjamieson