Ambushed

I retrieve scrapbooks and photo albums from my bookshelf, frequently visiting their pages hoping to keep the very best of everyone who’s blessed my life from disappearing from my mind. I need my memories of them to stay with me. I need them to soothe me on rainy days when time threatens to erase all traces of those people I still hold dear, even in their absence. I cherish these photographs and albums, for they provide evidence of the beautiful souls I was privileged to know and love. In my quiet, reflective moments, I see the people beneath their troubles. I see my mother’s enduring, patient love for her family. I see my father’s childlike spirit, his integrity, and his pride in his children. In my younger brother’s eyes, I see his lost soul and angst. In my grandparents’ demeanor, I see strength and courage, attributes they needed to survive both the Great Depression and the second world war. In my aunt’s chestnut eyes, I see her zeal for life and her unwavering commitment to her career. The photographs within the scrapbook’s well-worn pages are a window into times passed, for the better and the worse, for the bitter as well as the sweet. And in looking back to the stories of the past, I gain wisdom in seeing myself and others as perhaps an onlooker may. printed photographs keep alive emotional photographs, salve that bonny memories bring sometimes those memories ambush me—they sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks I try to sniff back the tears yet they tumble, carving pathways across my face anointing me with love