Looking at Old Photos

A glass of cream soda with ice sets on the glass end table-- it's probably Monga's. She is across the room from it, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, smiling at Andreya, who thinks she's being clever by putting a red package bow on her 8-year-old head. I'm sitting on my knees on the floor, hands in my lap, smiling at the camera-- it's one of those generic smiles with eyes that don't say much. Baby Jessi is reaching out for a just-unwrapped Baby Cuddles doll still in its box. Mom sits next to Jessi, holding her upright. I remember this thick, tri-toned brown carpet. I can feel its fibers on the palms of my hands. I don't remember the TV (which seems small for Monga's standards) or the stand it sets on. But, I recognize the orange and brown wooden owls decorating the top of the TV. I can feel the soft smooth of the brown sofa that was later handed down to mom when Monga got new furniture. Mom is wearing what was then one of my favorite shirts of hers: a white, red, and black plaid...But, it's also interesting what I don't recall in this photo: I get no feelings from it. No experiences or moments return to me, no matter how long or hard I stare.


In another picture, Monga sits on the lawn swing out by the pool with baby Jessi sitting on her lap. Monga's sharing a drink with her out of a plastic cup. Linda sits next to them on the swing, sipping a drink through a straw, looking off at someone/something in the pool. I remember the lawn swing. I remember how the green-with-white-daisies cushion crunched when you sat on it. I can hear, too, the creaking the swing made when you swung in it (no matter how much DW40 was applied). It had a canopy over it, which made it nice for napping, or a place to sit that wasn't a towel on the cement in the sun, after you were sunburned from playing in the pool all day. I remember hitting the bottom of the canopy to dump all the water from the top of it after there'd been rain...


Another poolside picture is of me in a blue bathing suit, my long blonde hair sun-dried. I'm carrying a plate of barbecue in one hand; I'm rubbing my face with the other. This reminds me of how I was always getting sunburned, how I learned to tell I was burnt by the level of sting my face felt when I applied sunscreen to it...But, things I find it harder and harder to recall are in the picture, too...The rock wall that marigolds were planted in-- there were always a lot of bees or butterflies around the pool...The blue and green metal chairs with thin floral cushions to keep the seats from getting too hot to sit on (How many times did I burn my butt cheeks?!)Sometimes, after a storm, we'd come out the next day and find these chairs in the pool...They rusted over the years, along with the lawn swing. I don't remember when they all went missing.


There are two photographs of Monga sitting in a brown and orange floral rocking chair in what we all call "the brown house": the second house Cecil built. Monga has her puffy red coat on (she rarely removed her coat at other people's homes). Baby Jessi sits on her lap, Monga's left arm around her. Monga's right hand is up by her mouth-- she's absently chewing on her perfectly manicured, red-to-match-her-coat fingers. The other picture is from a few moments before or after this. Jessi is smiling (you can hear her mischievous baby laughter) as she reaches for a Rubik's cube keychain that Monga's dangling in front of her. This second photo shows off Monga's fingers loaded down with diamonds, and her smile...I remember the texture of the chair she and Jessi are sitting in. The flowers stuck out a little from the rest of the fabric. I used to like to trace my finger around the edges of the flowers. Something that catches my eye, though, for seeming unordinary, are Monga's shoes. They're blue sneakers with white stripes. I don't remember her ever wearing anything but moccasins or plain white Keds.


Looking at old photos and really trying to climb inside them makes me tired. I really want to explore their frozen worlds because those places were once alive. But, it's difficult with all those decades of being held still, to ignite the vibrancy the air held in those moments. I can't access emotions, inflections, subtle nuances of movements. I want to slow down time; climb in and smell the rooms; feel the textures; taste the drinks; see from my eyes again (or someone else's)...I want to look at my Monga and see a dynamic being instead of the waxy shell I cried over as it lay in a coffin.