Many of the photographs were taken on old tin
plates that produced brownish prints. Most
are fading now. Too many of their young faces
are all but gone. It saddens me that in some
of the photographs there are just the clothes
standing there smiling back at us. It never
occurred to me that my grandmother once had
a tiny waist or that she was just a tad taller than
the boy she married. Andrew was the first born
of over a dozen. He had snapshots of aunts
and uncles so young not even their offspring can
name them. I sit among the images wondering
what was going on moments before they were
taken. In one, everybody is sporting a kind
of frown except a very young cousin Gordon.
He is yawning with a boredom that suggests
he has heard whatever has taken the joy out
of the moment so many times, it’s lost its punch.
About Fredrick Zydek
