A box of memories
I visited with my aunt today and went snooping around her house, as any good nephew will. In an upstairs bedroom—a room scarcely visited, based on the dust in evidence—was a small, metal box. It was filled to capacity with dozens of photos sorted by geography. Paris, Innsbruck, Brazil, at least a dozen other locales. I surveyed a few and they were the standard issue tourist photos taken in front of scenic vistas, roadside attractions, etc. The left half of one image, shot in front of Trevi Fountain, was obscured by an enormous light leak, an artifact from a time before such things were digital affectations. The photos contained family and friends--some familiar, most not, many now deceased. They were a simple, unpretentious compilation of memories assembled during the course of trips taken at various points throughout my aunt’s 74 years. A record of her journeys and the loved ones with whom she travelled. It felt like the closest thing I can imagine to holding a box of time.
