He’s an old man now, and the 8 mm home movies are almost as old as his children. Some of them are older, in fact.

She’s an old woman, and it’s been ten years since their second child died. The movies have aged a decade in the dark tins since they were last watched. They couldn’t bear to see the innocent face of the child who they now knew would pass before them.

It’s been ten years, and they figure it’s time. Time to acknowledge and celebrate his memory. He would be fifty this year. So the old man carefully unpacks the antique projector, blowing the dust off the bulb and lubricating the reel axles. Next comes the round tins of celluloid, labeled with faded pencil on masking tape: “White Sands, April 1959”, “Silver City, Summer 1962”, “Yellowstone, 1965.”

He opens one at random, gently dropping the 8 inch reel into his left hand. He unrolls a few frames from the tape, pulling gingerly in case the film has stuck together over the years. It’s not stuck, but it is brittle, and the gentle tug causes a tear in the film’s leader. Drawing a sharp breath in and pulling his lips back to expose smoke-stained dentures, the old man concentrates on threading the film through the projector, making sure to keep even pressure on the narrow celluloid. He threads it successfully, and hooks the end of the film through the slot in the take-up reel.

“Ready, hon?” he says to the old woman.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” she replies, a hint of an Oklahoma accent in her tone.

He stands, turns out the light, and steps back to the projector, stooping to pull a flashlight out of its charger on the way. With the flashlight on, he turns a knob and the room fills with the chattering sound of a Super 8 mm projector. He clicks the flashlight off.

After a few seconds, an image of two children, a boy and a girl, appears on the wall, yellowed with age, a long scratch stuttering down the right side of the frame. The kids wave and move their mouths; there is no sound. The old woman starts to cry.

“I think I’m glad that the camera couldn’t pick up sound,” she says. “I don’t think I could take it if I heard his voice.”

“I wish we could hear him. I think I’ve forgotten what he sounded like when he was that age.” The old man puts his arm around the old woman, rubbing his fingers into her shoulder. “I still say that it’s not right. A parent shouldn’t have to bury his child, no matter how old the child is. It’s backwards!”

The old woman reaches up with a tissue, wiping at the tear track on the old man’s face. “I know, darlin’, I know.” Settling into each other’s arms, they know they have found a new yearly ritual.

On the home movie, the young boy runs around in a cowboy outfit, guns blazing silently.