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Peter remembered little things about his parents. A voice, mostly, or the wispiest hint of a smile, or the way his father ruffled Peter's hair, and how his mother would smooth it back down again. He remembered small things, nothing significant.
He never would have remembered how they looked, how they moved, or spoke, or how easily and openly they loved him, if not for the box of home videos his aunt had found in the basement. They belonged to his mother, apparently, and now he sat, cross legged in front of the television Matt had no real use for, sound kept low, trying not to wake the redhead while he slept, a few rooms away.
The room was dark, except for the flickering of the television, painting his features hues of greens and blues as he listened to his father mumble an equation to himself as he wrote it on the blackboard in his office, his mother holding the camera, sneaking up behind the man. “Now!” his mother said, her voice excited, and, almost at the same time, he, around the age of six, ran into the shot, tackling his father's legs with a small, happy shout. Peter's eyes watered up, watching his father stoop down and pick him up, laughing happily as he brought him up, set him on his shoulders.
“You got me, sport!”
Peter wiped at his eyes, sniffling wetly as the television flicked and switched scenes, and then they were at a picnic, and Peter was reciting his presentation on penguins, excited and small, happy.
“There are seventeen types of penguins in the world. Daddy—Daddy, did you know that? The penguins?” Peter tapped on his father's shoulder. “The penguins, Daddy.”
Peter's father looked up from his work, pushing his glasses back onto his nose. He smiled and set the pile of papers to the side, and pulled Peter into his lap. “No, I didn't know that, Petey. What are they?”
Peter smiled, and began reciting the names, the look of pure pride on his father's face unmistakable. “There's the Adelie penguins, and the African penguins, and the Chinstrap penguins, and the Emperor penguins...” He counted them off on his fingers, grinning as he talked.
Peter wiped at his face again, sniffling gently, repeatedly as he watched his mother and father and himself, so young, so happy. He missed them. He wanted them back.
“He's so smart,” he heard his mother say quietly, his father looking over to the camera. “He's going to do so much.”
His father smiled, smoothed down Peter's hair affectionately as he rambled on. “I know, Mary,” he said, smiling. “He's growing up so fast...”
A small choked, sob escaped Peter's throat, his vision too bleary to really watch anymore, and he covered his mouth his one hand, hanging his head as the tears continued, despite his desperate attempts to keep quiet for Matt.
“I'm proud of you, kiddo,” he heard. It was his father's voice.
“We're both proud of you, Pete.” His mother. “Now help Mommy clean up, and we can go get ice cream. Richard, will you—” The video cut off, leaving nothing but white noise and Peter's muffled tears to fill the room.