Fool's Gold

Fool’s Gold

I ponder past prancing particles of dust in a sun beam gloating through the attic’s only window.  My trance of thought is brought on because I feel like a voyeur as I harvest through faces coffined in aged photographs.  Relatives I assume only because I can recognize similarities in features and expression which mimic those of my family today.

Through dim light I flip through pee yellow snaps shots of women with stoic expression framed by babushka’s tied tightly at their chin.  Men stand next to wagons or horses with a suave attitude in their eyes.  I continue my espionage and discover faded color snaps shots of wedding dances, shirtless boys swinging on ropes over lakes, and pompadour crown prom goers.  Moments of the lives of others, who I am related to fast forward past my eyes, the only emotion I feel is sadness because I don’t feel more linked to the captured scenes.

Closer to my time line I find pictures of people I do have some connection with.  There is my grandfather and mom at the giant ball of string attraction.  I can almost hear the loud campaigning of women as I come across pictures of the Daughters of the Revelation rally with my great-grandmother standing on a chair shouting.

I began a silent cry as I see memories of canning with Aunt Benna. I remember sneaking fresh cucumbers slices before they were turned into sweet bread and butter pickles by being packed into jars filled with a slimy, stinky mix of apple cider vinegar and spices.  I laugh at old holidays decorated with cheesy smiles and excited look at what I got’s.

As I sift through the love letters, certificates of achievements, dried flowers, and photos I ache.  My soul weeps as for every one trinket of my deceased aunts I save because I have an attachment to it, dozens of others are tossed in the throw away box.  Faces without names and names without faces, diaries penned in earnest author unknown.  Each piece longs to tell its tale I feel the hum of as I touch each one.  But I don’t understand or know the language they speak.

I spend hours of my day sorting through the collage of boxes in the dust filled attic.  Stalking my way through someone else’s life through paper memories caged in vermillion hat boxes.  A picture may be worth a thousand words, but only if someone can tell its story.  Otherwise it is simply a nugget of fool’s gold someone captured once upon a time.