Tracing Remnants of Memory
“It was full of whispered words, the lure of stories waiting to be read, a rustle of promise that hung in the air. How many adventures were hidden here in paper and ink, how many great love stories, how many epic battles?”
I have always loved old books, worn furniture, used postcards.
I tend to hold onto plane tickets, movie stubs, handwritten grocery lists—fallen autumn leaves that I keep until they crumble, and dried petals from spring flowers that I hide at the bottom of my sock drawer.
I find developing negatives into film so therapeutic. I study coins, gravestones—anything with a soul, anything with a story, anything with character.
A book I bought in an antique store seven years ago had a photo tucked between its pages—one I only discovered after bringing it home.
A man in uniform stood on a beach in 1924.
I wonder about the person who took the photo. Were they in love? Did they marry? What was their wedding like? Did they have children? Where did they settle? Did they grow old together and visit the sea often?
Another book, worn at the edges, has pencil markings in nearly every chapter from a Mary Forshaw in 1943. Definitions of words, sometimes even just a "!" or a "?" at the end of a paragraph.
I wonder where she is now, what she was studying, what other books she annotated, what discoveries she went on to make, what places she saw.
A book of poetry I picked up a few months ago had a loose card inside, written in ink—a Valentine’s note from 1928.
Who wrote it? To whom was it given? And when was it let go?
A frame I recently found tucked away in an antiques room caught my eye. It was quite heavy, but I loved the feeling of holding it.
Inside, where a picture may have once been, there was only a blank sheet of paper.
The seller told me the back might be difficult to open, as the screws hadn’t been touched in years, rusted into place. She had no idea of its origins or previous owners.
Today, I opened it for the first time—and I felt like crying.
Inside was a photograph of two young girls.
Marion and Hallie (?). 1913.
How many hands have held this frame in the last one hundred years?
What did the childhood days of Marion and Hallie look like? What did they dream of? Do they see me here, tracing my fingers over their faces?
Who was the last person to let this frame go, allowing a stranger to find it?
How long was it waiting to be found, to be held again?
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.
And I feel overwhelmingly homesick.
Grateful.
Curious.
Young.
Old.
Big, and insignificant, all at once.