I feel my past slipping away like a landslide, the topsoil steadily moving down behind me like a carpet pulling everything with it into the deep dark void. Unstoppable. Taking the houses, the trees, and me.
“Who took the Adams’ Bible?” my aunt wants to know. “There was a big ruckus over that Bible. It landed in the hands of an alienated family member. Aunt Flo finally got it back and your mother got it from her.”
I scanned all the black and white photos in Dad’s leather album from his time in the army in Germany, transcribing all the little handwritten notes on the backs.
“Me standing at attention. Shaner messed this up. He didn’t tell me I was shadowed.”
“This is my equipment that we had to carry most of the time. I took it Sunday when we had inspection.”
“We had a demonstration yesterday and here is a shot taken right after the air force dropped some napalm on the target before the tanks and big guns moved in. It was some show.”
“Me sewing up a pair of shorts. The general is coming to inspect. (It didn’t do any good. We failed.)”
Mom’s framed wedding portrait with a telegram from my grandfather to my dad in Germany.
“Congratulations. It’s a little girl. Arrived at 9:30. Everything okay.”
I scanned all the photos of Mom and my sister in the back of Dad’s army album that I never realized were there.
“She’s got her eyes open a little bit more here. Isn’t she the cutest thing you ever saw?”
“This is where I give her a bath. Right by the stove. I turn the burners on so it will be nice and warm for her.”
Mom and Dad’s memories, recorded on film, sent across the ocean, returned home, arranged in a photo album, held in place with black photo corners.
Envelopes of color photos from the trip to D.C., my grandmother’s 90th birthday party, Mom and Dad’s 50th anniversary. Grandchildren.
I’ll keep the things they saved from their parents. Photos, marriage licenses, death certificates. A hand-written diary from Mom’s grandfather and his farming days.
I’ll put it all in the cedar chest with their high school graduation photos and yearbooks; with the outfit Mom wore in the photo with her great-grandson just two years ago, and Dad’s captain’s hats from his pontoon days at the cottage at the lake.
Little mementos. Articles of genealogical interest. Sentimental items.
I’ll store them all away, for what purpose I do not know. Small fragments of a past that is no more.