They go back ninety years or more, these photographs of family life, lost to time, year upon year, in my big box of photographs.

Start anywhere; let’s say before my time: That’s it, dig deep down; look! There’s Great-Grandma Doreen, stern, unsmiling; death dated on the back—1914. Shuffle the shots and hold to the light tiny two-inch stories in black and white, which tell of the affair of mum and dad. Clearly broke; enough money for a donkey ride in Sunday best, mum dressed to kill. Dead dad now of course, passed away; a color enprint his sole memorial of better days. For all are in there, those long-lost souls.

Look, there’s Aunt Nellie, old before her time, supine in marriage to a mean, mean man. Tight as a knave, that’s what we say, and it came to pass that he got his way, ending his life in a cheapskate’s grave.

Moving through years, here’s me with Dad at the Sunday table. Father, Son, and Holy Roast: A ritual with the radio on: There’s more! Me, on Carnaby Street, casual, leaning, smiling, assured, perhaps even preening, with jacket lapels as wide as elephant ears. A fashion icon through the years. See pictures of pets long past, brought to life by dog-eared photographs invoking fond tears of memory. “Gone but not forgotten,” isn’t that the expression? An invention of the mind.

Memories were once made of this in black and white and fading color, but my box was closed some years ago, at the back of a cupboard below the stairs. We still take family photos, but not so much that nobody cares, because there’s no romance, no story to unfold, on a cold hard drive in a virtual world.

Photo: Roman Kraft via Unsplash