The Suitcase and the Gathering of Souls (extract)
For years, an old suitcase has sat in my attic, left to me by my great-uncle Jimmy. When I received it, I found it filled with family photographs and memorabilia, carefully annotated in his familiar hand. But life had been busy, and I had never taken the time to truly examine its contents. Now, I hear an inner voice urging me: Do it now. Digitize the photos. Make your mother an album of her family’s story.
Clambering into the loft, I pull down the suitcase and drag it into the light. Little dust clouds puff as I snap open the locks and lift the lid. The old fabric and cardboard yield with a sigh. Inside, the family waits, holding its breath. At last, they seem to murmur. Here she is at last.
Out spill sepia-toned portraits from the late 19th century, dog-eared packets of snapshots, medals wrapped in tissue, scrapbooks and notes. The faces in these photographs stare back at me—men with pristine collars and slicked-back hair, women with wasp waists, elegant bouffant hairdos and misty eyes. Children blur like ghosts, fidgeting through the long exposures. Each face is a puzzle to be read, and I search them for resemblances, drawn irresistibly into their stories.
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