Someone Else's Lifetime

This afternoon I trudged down
our curb-less street
to make sure the storm drains
were clear for the melting snow.
A chilly gust turned
my head in time to see
something blowing toward me
in the distance.
It was black and rolling
like an autumn leaf
that starts and stops at will.
I stepped gently on a corner
to claim it from the wind
and pulled it toward the bottom of my specs.

A black and brittle page
held faces looking back at me
with youthful smiles
now tattered by time
but held so close
I smelled the dusty trunk
that kept them long ago.
I knew the familiar faded tones
of glossy black-and-whites
with curled corners
in need of the pasted triangles
that pressed them flat
when the people in them cared.

I saw the holes where once a satin chord
had threaded through the pages
to be tied with tasseled knots
on the outside of a wooden cover
that took two laps to hold.
I’ve held such scrapbooks
and know the touch of such paper
that nearly breaks for turning.
I knew everything there was to know
of the musty material in my hand
but nothing of what matters most.

I stared up the street
from where the page had blown
in hopes of seeing someone there—
someone who could tell me
who were these happy graduates
from the Class of ’42.
What bound them by the elbows?
Surely someone somewhere knew.

But this was someone else’s lifetime;
these were someone else’s kin;
those were someone else’s memories
held tight again.
© Copyright 2007, Patterns of Ink

(Click to enlarge photo 1 and 3.
Date is at top of 3rd photo.)