memories past

 I have a picture of my parents taken on their wedding day. It was a day unknown to me until quite recently. They never celebrated their anniversary when I was kid. It wasn't something I had ever given thought to, to be honest about that. That picture was on the shelf by the fireplace and mostly went unnoticed. My mother kept the date of her marriage to my father to herself. In the last few years of her life, I did ask and always got the same response, I don't remember. Now I never believed that for a second, but a child doesn't confront their parent, no matter how old you get. At least not when it comes to things like that, a personal thing, something between her and her husband. It makes no difference that her husband is also my father. I never asked him that question, he passed away before I took any interest in knowing. Would he have told? I don't know, perhaps, but I really can't say.

 Today I can only speculate about the reason for the secrecy. Truly it makes no difference in the big scheme of things, that knowledge wouldn't alter a thing. My speculation hasn't altered anything why would the facts? But yesterday I happen to glance up and see that photo and a different feeling came over me. It was a sudden realization that they are both gone, deceased as we say. It's difficult to express exactly what I felt, Dad passed in 1990, thirty two years ago, and Mom passed almost a year ago. Looking at that picture though was different this time, faces from the past, their stories unknown except to themselves. That's how I felt even though they were my parents. Dad had always been husband to Mom, but Mom had been a wife to four different men. And so I thought, did I really know them? 

 I have lots of photographs around the house, my interest in ancestry driving that. Now I look at those photographs differently. I see the faces, I know a tiny fraction of their lives, but don't really know any of them. All I really know are facts, and some speculation gleaned from those facts. Where I used to see those pictures and thought I could hear them, they have all gone silent now. What I was hearing was my own thoughts about how they may have felt. I'm thinking that perhaps that is what grief really is, silence. The majority of the pictures I have displayed are of those folks from the past, all silent. But the silence is a comfort of sorts. The silence acts as a sort of seal. The silence captures the memories. The memories remain undisturbed. Memories captured in a photograph often go untold by the ones in the photograph. 

 I enjoy telling others what the photographs are all about. Even when all I can say is, they were a relative of mine, an ancestor or a descendent. And the truth is that is about all I know with a great number of them. I do like the unposed ones, the candid shots of life the best of all. Those usually have a story of some sort connected to them. Whether it was a vacation, special occasion, or just a moment, they interest me more. I think perhaps that is because whatever is going on in the background brings life to the subject. What are they doing? After they are gone the only way to fill in the silence is by speculation. Those visual clues are all important. Take that one picture I have of Mom and Dad on their wedding day as an example. That is all I know about that. Where were they? I don't know. Who else was there? I don't know. It appears to be a studio type portrait. Was it taken on the day they were married or at some later date? I don't know and will never know. All I have is two silent faces, smiling, and a few clues. 

 I tried but I don't think I have explained how I feel. Do you feel differently looking at a picture of someone after they have passed away? Do you see that picture with sadness, or with a smile, enjoying their memory? I think for the first time yesterday I saw that picture and realized they were both gone, silent forever. Faces from the past and more of their memories will be lost when it is my turn to go. 

"Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad. (Longfellow)"

I wish I could take credit for that thought. It's the way I feel sometimes. We all have secret sorrows. In looking at those silent photographs do you see sadness? I do not. I see anticipation. They are waiting for their name to be spoken so they live again. That's what I think. That's the silence I'm thinking about. When your name is forgotten so are you. It's what the ancient Egyptians believed, it's why we mark our graves. It's a universal thing. It's why the people of the past are important to me. It's an obligation, a debt to be paid in exchange for knowing them. Each one valuable in his own way. Each having contributed to who I am, even before I was. And that speaks to the idea of a circle. Will the circle be unbroken? Not on my watch it won't. Still, I'll take a few secrets with me.