The Old Photograph

Writing Prompt: The Old Photograph

A faded photograph captures a moment everyone remembers differently. One small detail changes everything.

The rain pelted the window of my grandfather’s library. I was searching for an old book by Hemingway, to cite in my master’s thesis. My eyes traced the wooden shelves of dust covered hardbacks. I licked my lips at the grandeur of literary volumes gathered in one place. Each title hitched recognition in me of the great authors of our time. I found the Hs at the top and got a small wooden stool from the corner of the room, so that I could reach the shelf.

I reached out with my finger searching the shelf for a big hardback by Hemingway that I had read before during my undergraduate years.

“Where was it? Hmm, H, H…” I mumbled to myself. “Ha, He…. Hemingway… There! “A sudden flash of lightning made me jump, and I fell off the stool landing on my side on the carpeted floor. 

In my hand was an old book I had never seen before. I must have grabbed it when the lightning struck outside, and the book fell with me.

I sat up with my legs crossed and began leafing through the pages. It was a book of species from the North Carolina marshes. A place I knew well but had not visited since I was a child.

An old photograph was laid in between the pages. It was dog eared on all four corners and there was a small tear on the left side.

I turned it over to see a black and white photograph of a young woman rowing a boat in the marshes. She was wearing a dress, but I couldn’t tell what color it was since the photo had none. Somehow, I imagined it being rusty brown and the picture was taken in the fall.

She looked familiar, but also wrong. I recognized the eyes immediately, but her hair wasn’t curly and grey. Her skin wasn’t wrinkly, but youthful and slender. Her smile lit up the picture, and my own lips curled at seeing her this young and carefree.

“Who made her laugh like that?” I wondered.

My eyes were drawn to her fingers that clutched the oars on the rowing boat. She was about to push away; her bare feet braced against the seat in front of her in the boat. Her hands were slender and delicate just like she was when she used to play the piano with me at her side.

My eyes closed and I paused, stilling my breath as I heard the familiar air conditioning unit hum nearby. I could still hear the music she played while I was sitting on the floor with my toys. I loved listening to her play. Her fingers moved effortlessly over the piano keys, not missing a single harmony. It was because of her teaching me the piano that I had gone to Juilliard.

I opened my eyes and inspected the sides of the photo for a clue of where it was taken. There was a short line of faded squiggly writing that said, “Irene, October 1956.” I did math, and it made sense. That photo was taken when my grandmother was twenty years old. Her birthday was in October, and I imagined that the photo was taken on that day.

“What are you looking at, sugar plum?” My dad’s voice boomed over the storm as he walked into the room. He used my grandfather’s old nickname for me. It had stuck over the years, even after his death. When I came to the old house, it seemed apt for my dad to use it, even though I was a fully grown woman.

“I found this old photo.” I held up the photograph for my dad to see. “Look who it is!”

Dad took the photo from me and took a seat on a chair behind me. I turned around to face him.

“Wow, this photo is very old. Must have been taken before I was born.” My dad mumbled in surprise. His lips broke into a smile as he took in the photograph and he seemed to drift away, lost in his own memories.

I watched his face change from happiness to sorrow.

“She was so beautiful.” He whispered almost inaudibly to himself. His Adams apple bobbed up and down while he composed himself.

“Do you know where that photo was taken, dad?”

“Yes, I know that spot. She and your grandpa used to take me and my brothers out in the marshes in that boat. Your grandpa taught us how to fish, and your grandma always had a picnic prepared.”

“Sounds fun, dad.” I smiled.

“Yes, it was.” His eyes looked up from the photo and searched for mine. “Where did you find it?”

“It was in this book.” I held up the volume of species for him to see.

My dad laughed. “That figures. It was grandpa’s favorite book.”

Dad fell silent for a moment then stood up.

“Do you mind if I keep this?”

“Not at all.” I smiled as dad left the library and I turned back to my search for Hemingway.

Why don’t you join this writing challenge too? From Pen & Page

Ordinary Things, Extraordinary Stories.

https://medium.com/writers-whispers/ordinary-things-extraordinary-stories-c436d7c40410

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, wife, mom, teacher, and author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

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Why don’t you join this writing challenge too? From Pen & Page

Ordinary Things, Extraordinary Stories.

https://medium.com/writers-whispers/ordinary-things-extraordinary-stories-c436d7c40410

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, wife, mom, teacher, and author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484