by Tim O'Dell

Created on: July 09, 2009

The Photograph

Wrinkled, mottled, stuttering fingers smear the ancient glass. Though still clear, the signs of many years of touching have discolored the glass so the photograph appears unnaturally dark. At the edges can be seen traces of decades of grease where cleaning has been unable to clear all the deposits. The frame, once a light pine, has darkened with soaked in human oils until it is the deepness of mahogany. Many years have nurtured, loved, cherished this photograph. It is a possession that speaks of a lifetime's yearning.

Gloria peers through aging, deteriorated, clouded eyes at the photograph. She is 90 in two days time and most of her possessions have been given to her grandchildren. She sits in a once cluttered home and contemplates the empty space around her. She knows she does not have much time left on this earth. Tired. A long, hard-lived life has led to a faded old age where all she longs to do is take the eternal sleep of the dead. It is not unwelcome, the prospect of passing through the veil. Death has never frightened her, just made her curious. Yes, she is tired. She looks back at the photograph. This, her last treasured possession, is one she has kept until the end.

To study the photograph would be to see a black and white image of a man in uniform. The pale shades of his face serve only to highlight the dark shadows of his eye sockets. Thin lips are stretched in a somber outlook. Cold, distant, unreachable; his whole aspect is one of separation. The paler shades of this image darken into a hairline. But even this has large patches of light speaking of a fair-headed scalp. From the face stare light colored eyes; unsmiling, withdrawn, shrouded. It would appear that death had already touched this man, as it had many who wore his uniform, and had taken an enormous toll on his life. The uniform was of the British army, around 1915. The photograph was of a serviceman who had fought in the Great War.

But the eyes have always drawn Gloria. While they tell of nameless horrors they also capture her heart; so sharp, so spectral, so knowing. Almost alive. It is said the eyes are the windows into the soul; for all her life Gloria has tried her hardest to make that come true of this man. Now, as she looks at the photograph for the last time, she knows she will never achieve her wish in this lifetime. Her fingers trace his outline once more. Familiar from many years of tracing, for hers are the only

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>