Time

These are some of my people, and some of their people.

1_Page_37Strangers whose blood runs through me. 1_Page_14

Who resemble my uncle, my grandmother.

1_Page_54 1_Page_77

How fabulous they seem, trapped in their smiles and eras, silent and fixed there, unmoved.

1_Page_78

But they do move. They date, age, expire.

Processed with VSCO with b5 preset

I cannot explain what unease it is to tell a personal history – what it forces and corrupts, what it distills, propels, means – because its tribulations are difficult to express. But my youthful insistence to keep myself out, a matter of inexperience, proved to make this particular story more, not less, trite than I intended. So came the day that I listened to the patient editors and began to write the story of my maternal family. I read recently, “Any personal or family history, large or small in scope, can throw light on the human condition.” This is my toss, let’s see how far it goes.