Archive for November, 2017

The Archivist


I take photos
When people least expect it
It captures
The core of their essence
The way they smile or laugh
Engage and socialize
Before the perfected pose
When the angles, lighting and shadows meet
Turning them into a version
That they feel best represents

I write
To remember memories
And moments when I wasn’t mislead
Focused on distractions
Times that I shared with others
When lessons were learned
Epiphanies were gained
When life crashed
Into a beautiful wreck of emotions
Empathy, remorse or despair

I am not documented
The camera’s eye never turns
On the framer of thirds

I report diligently
But my name is simply “archivist”
A face that shows up
Only by accident
I’m the narrator with no name

Along with photos and words
Is history that I assemble
In the form of
Yellowed paged manuscripts
With broken spines
Bottles of perfume
From when carriages
Roamed the streets
Or creations born
Before the modern age

But the fact is that I cannot be certain
That when I am gone
It all won’t be sold to the lowest bidder
During estate sales
Or tossed into trashcans
By generations
Feeling buried beneath the clutter
Of those that went before them

Yet still
It is my burden
To agonize and preserve
So that others never lose themselves
That other generations can know them
Just as I did

I long for my daughters
To grow up hearing and watching
Their first words
Or bike ride
My 40 year old son
To laugh as he watches little 8 year old legs
Beat its way down a soccer field
For friends in their twilight years
Musing and reminiscing
As they watch themselves
At birthday parties
When their face held fewer wrinkles

My efforts
And the memories they carry
Will help them repaint a picture
That it will once again
Ignite the smells they had forgotten
And summon the faces
Of those that had long gone hazy


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