We are going through my grandmother’s house. She died a few days ago and we are cleaning up the house, already sold, and reminiscing around the photographs of rapidly decaying color. My brother points to an old one that has just crossed that line where your eyes can’t even pretend they see colors anymore. “Why are they doing that Sissy? Can’t we save them?”
I pick him up. “I’m afraid not Leo. The soul is departed, so the brilliant colors have to fade. They’re just memories now.” He doesn’t really understand. He’s too young. But this is how it’s always been. Pictures can hold a bit of soul in them and it reveals itself as color. When the soul departs this world, the colors fade away. But Leo is just 4. He doesn’t get it. I pick up a picture that still has a bit of color left. Grandma’s 96th birthday. It was just a couple months ago. I feel a small drop roll down my cheek. Leo reaches up to wipe it away.
“It’s okay Sissy. Don’t cry. The pictures, the memories are still good.” I smile at his childish innocence and rest a kiss on his forehead. He grabs the picture, holds it tight, staring. I think he might be trying to memorize it in perfect detail before the colors fade. He squirms, wanting down, then runs across the room to Mom. I move to the next room, grandma’s bedroom. The room itself is very tidy, but I know what will meet me when I open the closet. I remember once, when I was about 6, I opened the door and everything fell over, burying me in a mountain of old shoes, ties, clothes, and photographs. Granddad heard and found me there, struggling to climb out of the mess. It was after that, Grandma insisted he organize the junk and get rid of what he didn’t need. He trashed some, but a lot was left, albeit far more organized now. He died when I was 8. Grandma has refused to open this door since. But it’s time. I flick on the light and approach the closet, still a little afraid I will be buried again even though I’m 12 years older and much bigger now. I twist the knob and pull, with only a little struggle and a soft creak, it swings open. I am met with a literal wall of shoe boxes.
Grandad’s six suits, one for each weekday and a fancier one for Sunday, are all pushed to the extreme sides of the closet. The whole middle up to the rack and the entire top shelf is just shoeboxes. I sigh. Grandad was one hell of a pack rat. I start at the top, cause where else would you start, pulling out boxes, checking their content, and creating three piles; Photos, Donations, and Junk. It’s a long process, and rather boring, but in about an hour, I’m down to the bottom row. That’s when I find it. Tucked neatly away in the back corner, just another shoebox, but different. This one only has one photo in it. This was strange enough for me to give it a second look as I could still see another box a couple down literally bulging open with the number of photos jammed inside. I pick up the box and step away from the closet into better light. As I get a better look, a long forgotten memory starts to play in my head like a movie reel.
“Grandad! Help me!” He’s laughing at me, ignoring my wails as he realizes I am thoroughly encased in a small mountain of junk.
“Oh my, princess. What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time.”
“It fell.”
“Did it now. I rightly suppose we must put these vile beasts back in their place, no?”
“Grandad, I don’t understand. Can’t you just get me out of here.”
“Of course princess.” He starts moving things, releasing me from, what I thought at the time must surely be, the grip of death. When my arms are free, I start helping, little hands pawing at the old relics of days long past. Once I am free, I look back at my would-be captor, and something catches my eye. In a small mound of photographs, one sticks out. I grab it, and show it to grandad, who is trying to put things back in the closet.
“Grandad, grandad look. Why is this one different?” He glances at the picture, then snatches it out of my hand.
“It just is princess.”
“Oh. Who was it?”
“Someone my great grandfather used to serve. His master, who was kind enough to pay his passage to America.”
The photo itself looks old, printed on faded yellow paper like they had in the olden days. It was a picture of a young man, surely not much older than myself. He’s wearing a dapper suit, much like the one hanging in the closet behind me. And he’s standing outside, in a nice meadow. It must be spring. The wildflowers are all in bloom. It is a very pretty picture indeed. But the most striking thing about it was the brilliant colors splattered across the image. It was like looking through the clearest window imaginable, like real life. Very different from the grim shades of black and white in every other photo. Hands slightly trembling in a mix of curiosity, wonder, and confusion, I pick it off the bottom of the box. I drop the box, all of my attention focused on the ancient looking scrap of paper as I slowly flip it over. It takes me a minute to decipher the cursive scrawl. Young Lord Michael Alder, In the meadow on the eve of his 19th birthday, April 11, 1826. 1826. 1826! I read it again, and again, and a fourth time. No matter how many times I read it, the numbers refuse to change, to make sense. I flip it over, checking once more that my eyes did not deceive me. But the colors are still there, in sharpness and clarity I could not imagine. My brain refuses to function in light of this information. Perhaps that is why I did not hear my father calling me. “Elizabeth!” I twist around and my father was there, Leo sitting, half asleep in his arms. “Momma and I think we’re done for the day. C’mon, let’s go get some lunch.” He doesn’t question what I was doing. I suppose he must have thought I had fallen into a daydream or a memory. We’ve all been doing it these last couple of days.
“Okay dad. I’m coming.” He turns away and carries Leo back downstairs. For reasons I cannot explain to myself, I tuck the picture away in my back pocket before I follow him. When we meet, I make no move to mention the photograph, and we all go out for pizza. When we get home, it’s almost 3, and Leo had fallen asleep at the table in Cici’s. His nap was long overdue. I went straight to my room and closed the door. I took a deep breath; a second, and a third. I feel rattled. I should be used to it by now. Grandma’s death shook us all. But this is different. I grab the photo out of my pocket. My hands tremble as I hold it up, my eyes once more catch on the brilliance of the colors, even more defined than the photo of myself and my best friend Alexandra sitting in its custom frame on my desk. It looks so real. I stumble over to my bed, slightly light-headed, and sit down, still staring at the photograph. It’s just wrong. Everything about the picture is wrong, too clear, too real. It looks like I should be able to run my fingers over the glossy surface and feel the satin soft flower petals. I remember to breath but my breath catches when my nose is filled with the faint smell of lilacs and irises and lilies and apple blossoms. If I listen closely, I feel like I can hear the soft gurgle of the fountain and the chirp of birds that should not be in mid-January. The colors of my room seem to fade away, out-shined by the photo. I blink my eyes, trying to snap out of the stupor that has settled on my mind. It doesn’t work. I try again. I feel like I am falling, falling far and fast. The red behind my eyelids shifts to white, then grey, and black. Colors swirl on a black canvas for what feels like an eternity. Then they stop. Black becomes grey, then white, then red. Slowly, I open my eyes to bright sunlight and shades of green interspersed with blue and yellow and red. The birds are louder now, the smells stronger. My soft, warm bed has become a cold, hard stone bench. An earthy voice speaks to me.
“Are you all right, Love?” I look up to see none other than the very garden and man of the picture. In front of him, holding an old fashion camera, stands a man strikingly similar to my Grandad. My voice speaks without me, soft airy tones.
“Oh yes, I’m fine. Just drifted off into a daydream I believe.” Almost Grandad speaks, his voice sounds so much like Grandad, slow and low.
“The young missus does that quiet often, doesn’t she?” Michael smiles and my lips, acting of their own accord, do the same.
“What was the dream of, Dear?”
“Quite a curious thing. I dreamt of a life and family not my own, in days so distant future the technology I saw was like magic. And yet, I knew it all. I could name it, and use it. It was as if I was merely watching through the eyes while someone else entirely acted. She did not know you, but had just come across the very photo you just took. And only to add to the oddity, not a thing about the picture had changed. The color and clarity was exactly the same as it is right here and now.” My gut wrenched as she described the scenario, quite literally my own, just reversed. She must have felt it to, because our hands flew to out stomach. I was surprised by its rotundness. Michael walked forward. His hands slid over my own, lightly touching the bump on my abdomen.
“What’s wrong? Is the baby okay? Is it time?” We chuckle.
“Just a kick, I’m sure, Michael. I’m not due for a couple of months yet.” His earthy tenor tones chuckle back.
“Of course, of course.” Our eyes look a couple of inches up to meet his own. Our heart beats, slightly fast but steady, certain. We stretch up to plant a kiss on his pale pink lips.
“I love you Michael, always.” He returns the kiss, deeper than our own.
“I love you too, forever, my dearest Elizabeth.”
I bolt straight up in my bed. A dream. A really weird, really vivid dream. A quick glance out my window reveals a dark sky and big, fat, gently falling snowflakes. I’m still in my day clothes, though mom or dad one must have come in and pulled off my shoes. They also must have draped this thick afghan over me. My hands are empty. I look around, trying to find the photograph. It’s not on my bed, but as I scan my eyes, I catch a glimpse of the faded yellow all the way across my room. How did it get all the way over there? Maybe mom or dad, whichever came in, accidently drug it with them as they left. I stand and walk over. It sits, face down against the thick, cream colored carpet. The cursive scrawl reads just as it did before. I pick it open and flip it over, expecting to have my breath stolen once more by the striking colors. But I am met only with a dull grey landscape. There is no color and, more importantly, no subject. Michael is no longer standing in the photo. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I stand, and slowly turn. He’s there, sitting in my desk chair, exactly the same as the photo. Right down to the suit. He’s watching me. He looks… sad.
“She died. The very next day. The baby kicked while she was walking down the stairs. It caught her off guard and she fell.” I couldn’t speak. I was frozen, staring at him. He sighed. “They managed to save our daughter, but Elizabeth took a direct hit to the head. I was accused of causing the accident.  They took her away until I could be investigated, but her in a foster home. By the time I was cleared of the charges in October, my wealth was gone, as was my reputation and good name, and the foster parents had grown attached. They didn’t want to give her up. They had named her Mikayla. I couldn’t afford more law I couldn’t afford more lawyers and I probably would have lost the case anyway.” He fell silent, apparently done with his tale.  I was still lost.
“How are you here? Why aren’t you… why aren’t you… gone?”
“I met a man. He said he could give me eternal youth. I didn’t want it. Until he showed me something I had not been able to bring myself to look at since her death. A picture of Elizabeth, still as vibrant as the day it was taken. He said she wasn’t gone, merely shifted, to a new life. I was reminded of her tendency to daydream, such fantastical things. He said she would come back, but not for some time. I agreed to take him up on his offer, but we made some preparations first. I sold everything I could and paid passage for my three servants to go to America. the man took half my soul and stored it in that photograph. The other half was free to wander the world as a spirit. My most faithful servant Joshua, your great-great grandfather took the photo which held the half of my soul. He took good care of it, so did his son and grandson, even though they didn’t really understand it.” He fell silent again.
“Okay, that explains how… kind of, but why are you here?” He looks at me, somewhat blankly.
“I thought that was obvious, Love.” It takes me a moment to process his comment. Once I get it, I take an involuntary step back.
“Oh no. No I’m not… I’m not Elizabeth. Not your Elizabeth.”
“You are and you aren’t.”
“I can’t be.”
“I can prove it.” It is my turn to be silent. He stands. “You know how pictures work, right. The closer it is to the whole soul, the clearer the photo, right?” I nod, vaguely recalling this discussion in 9th grade science. He reaches into a pocket in his jacket and pulls out a wallet. He hands me a picture. It’s me, and him, side by side in the garden. The colors and clarity are on point. It could have been taken yesterday and you wouldn’t know the difference. I look at it, then him, then back at the picture. “Same soul, different life.” My eyes return to his. He still looks sad, but hopeful.
“I’m still… not here. I mean, I don’t know you, don’t remember…” I trail off waiting for him to realize, waiting for that hope to fade. I hate doing this. Hurting him feels like I am betraying some distant part of myself. But the hope stays in his eyes. I sigh. “Michael, I don’t love you. Once upon a time, maybe, in a distant life long past. But not anymore. I don’t remember. I don’t feel it.”
“I know.”
“And…?”
“Our love runs deeper than memories. I know you don’t feel it, but I’m confident it’s in there, buried deep. I intend to uncover it.”
“I don’t want you to if all it’s going to be is you expecting me to be someone else.”
“I don’t want you to be anyone else. I want you to be you. I want to love you for who you are now, not who you were.” For a long moment, we are both quiet. Suddenly, he stands, and wraps me in a warm, almost familiar hug. “We could try. Will you let me try?” I sigh, admitting defeat to myself. Somewhere deep inside, a small part of me flutters with the thought of falling in love with this man. A faint smile touches my lips.
“Yeah, you can try.” I feel him release a breath he must have been holding. His breath smells like toffee. We hug for a moment longer before he releases me. He steps back and moves around me to my bedroom door. “Where are you going?”
“I don’t imagine your parents would be happy to find a strange man in their house with their daughter.”
“Where will you go.”
“In a couple hundred years of spirit wandering, I’ve picked up on a few tricks. I need to make a life for myself, set myself up, get my ‘documents’. I even know a few people who might help, if I ask nicely.” He’s smiling, almost chuckling. I feel light and happy.
“Don’t get yourself into any trouble.”
“I won’t, Love. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon.” He opens the door and almost walks right into Leo, who is standing in the hall with a cup of water. “Oh! Um…”
“Leo, don’t say anything. Forget you saw or heard anything.” He stares for a long moment. Then he opens his little mouth.
“Do you have any candy?” Michael starts inching around my brother. Leo lets him go and he quietly slips down the hall. I walk over to my desk and open the drawer. “6 pieces.”
“6!?!” He nods. I hand him 2 snickers, a dum-dum, and 3 starbursts from my secret stash. I hear the front door creak softly open and closed. “Don’t eat them all at once. You’ll get sick.” Leo grins.
“It was a pleasure doing business with you Sissy.” He takes his candy and his water and wanders back into his room. I close my door behind him. Once more in quiet, though my body is tired, my mind races. I bend down to pick up the photo which had once more slipped through my fingers. I’m not sure how I feel about the grey landscape, and the whole day in general. It’s all so confusing. At last, I take the picture and slip it in my desk drawer before changing into my pjs and climbing into my bed. I stay there until dawn, unable to sleep as my brain works through all the new things I know and what they mean. I come to a conclusion and drift off around daybreak. The world is much stranger, much more confusing, and much more interesting than I had ever thought before.