Thanks! You are not the first one to suggest the Chicken Soup for Souls!
Short Story / Through the Eyes of Photographs
Tears streamed slowly down my cheeks, like a river flowing towards the ocean, as I turned the pages of our dusty family photo albums. Although I have gone through these albums several times throughout the years, I never found it to be this difficult before. Maybe the heart wrenching pain has surfaced this time because I sit here alone. I am not with my family, who would normally crowd around me and tell their favorite stories about the events that surround the mystery of the photos that fill these pages. Instead, I sit here rocking back and forth in my favorite chair desperately trying to hear my mothers voice softly telling me of her stories that she captured on film and recorded here in our family albums. As I turned through the pages of our familys captured memories, I began to see the pictures of my mothers life in a new light. These were not just precious memories of a family forever frozen in time, but rather the journey of my mothers life that tells of her experiences and adventures.
Her lifes journey begins with a small, tattered, black and white photo taken when she was eighteen months old. Her mother had dressed her in a short, white-laced dress with white stockings and black dress shoes upon her tiny feet, protecting them as she walked across the family farm. In another tattered picture taken on the same day, her eyes overflowed with the innocence and joyfulness that every young child has as she poses with her uncles in front of the family car.
As I continued turning the pages of time, I enjoyed watching her grow up through the pictures her family had taken of her. My journey led me down a path towards two black and white photos of her when she was twelve years old. In the first one, she is posing with her strapping dog Ring in the middle of an empty street. Wearing a pair of shorts, a sleeveless shirt, and her thick, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, she appears extremely comfortable. Her knees are bent into a squatting position, causing her to balance on her toes. Her slender arms are wrapped around her muscular pet. Ring, an exceptionally tall, white dog, has light colored patches partially covering his body. His dark eyes glare right into my soul, trying to make me understand how pleased he is with his doting owner through his blissful facial expression. Although part of her face is hidden by Ring, I can still see the upper corners of her smile and contentment in her eyes as she embraces her beloved pet. Laying beside this heartfelt moment is the second memory, taken only a few months later.
But this one is different.
This photo is rather puzzling to me. It has obviously been carefully cut in half, showing only my mother and two of her siblings. Both of her siblings seem to radiate with happiness, smiling beautifully as they lean on the kitchen table in front of my mother. My mother, on the other hand, looks as though she is involuntarily forcing a grin upon her thin, cold lips. She is standing straight and tall, like a solid oak tree that is too strong to sway in the gusting wind. Her brown, thick hair is tightly pulled back into a bun and a rather conservative dark colored dress covers her body. Her eyes are open wide and appear dreadfully serious, worried or quite possibly sad. As I continued to stare deeper into her eyes, I began to ask myself, Where is the other half of this photo? Who or what is missing? Who or what did she not want us to see? Why does she appear unsettled while her siblings seem to be enjoying every moment of their never-ending childhood? What was she hiding?
With each turn of the page I saw my mother grow into a tall, yet slender woman with timeless beauty who continued to build a life of her own.
As she began our family, the pictures that were taken along the way portray her joy of becoming a new, young mother. Her eyes exposed all the love and happiness that overflowed in her heart with each new baby she brought into her life. Each captured memory reveals how much she enjoyed her pregnancies and watching her children grow older as they discover the world around them. Priceless looks of joy, excitement, and dislikes are documented through photos of birthday parties, Christmas mornings, and new discoveries.
After she gave birth to me, there appears to be an extremely serious change in her demeanor that is painfully evident in her haunted brown eyes. The love and happiness that was once over abundant has disappeared. It has been replaced by a mysterious sadness that is obviously taking a harsh toll on her life. As I sat there staring into her eyes, I could not help but ask myself, Where did this sadness come from? What was causing it? Was I the source of her unhappiness?
Scared and confused, I went back in time to see if I had missed this same glaring sadness after my two brothers were born. Much to my dismay, it was not there. All I found was joy and delight as she held my brothers close to her, embracing them in her arms. That only leaves me to wonder one possibility, Could she already know her destiny?
With much hesitation, I continued down our path of memories that we had captured through photographs. My mother, now thirty, seemed to be aging in an untimely manner. Although she is still extremely beautiful, the sadness that seemed to control her life had added years to her body and her spirit. Her eyes appear so dark, like little hollow beads staring deep into my soul from the lifeless pictures on each page. Even though they are torturing my racing mind and haunting my soul, I find them enchanting and I cannot look away from them. The pictures of her and me together continue to disturb me as I glare into her eyes and I cannot help but still wonder if I am the cause of her mysterious sadness.
With another turn of the page, I find myself confronted with a picture of me helping my brother open a Christmas present while my mother sits in the background. I am only a year old here. My mother, wearing her pink pajamas with her legs bundled up under a homemade patch quilt, sits in her recliner watching her children rip open Christmas presents, covering the living room floor with shreds of wrapping paper and ribbons. It does not appear to be morning since my brother and I are fully dressed, which led me to wonder why my mother would still be wearing her pajamas so late in the day. With that in mind, I decided to take a closer look at my mother. Her face was filled with what I thought to be sadness at first. But wait! I gasped. Could it be worry? What could she be worried about? I closed my eyes and thought a bit more before looking at the picture again. As I opened my eyes and looked at the picture once more, I noticed that there are no Christmas decorations, not even a tree, which is something that I found rather unusual. My mother loved Christmas, especially selecting the perfect tree to decorate. All I could do is wonder what my mother must have been going through. I thought to myself, What was so terrible that she did not want to find the perfect tree to decorate for Christmas? Why was she sitting in a chair in the corner instead of sitting on the floor helping her children open their presents as she had down so many times before?
The next few pages in our familys timeline are filled with my mothers adventures. Her travels took her throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico. As she escaped from her reality, the eminent excitement and enjoyment of her journeys are illuminated through her beaming, radiant eyes and her gleaming smile. As I admired my mothers adventures one photo in particular caught my eye. During her first trip to Canada, she appears to be enjoying the beautiful sites as she poses for pictures along the way. But this picture depicted something that I had not seen in the other photographs. The sadness that seemed to have faded away had found its way back into her eyes once more as she sat along the short black rail of a spraying fountain. Confused, I asked myself, Where did it suddenly come from? Why did she look so joyful and full of life in the other photos, but not here? What had caused this change?
With another turn of the page, reality had begun once more. Now, most of the pictures portrayed my brothers, my father and me spending time together and doing activities with one another. My mother seems to have faded into the shadows of our lives. As she began to resurface, my father slowly began to disappear until he eventually vanished into thin air. This was obviously a new era in my mothers life. Now, there were more pictures of her with all of her children, and she was almost always happy, even with me. This left me pondering, Was it my father who had caused my mothers sadness? Could it have been him instead of me? Maybe it was something more than just my father? Why was there such a long gap of pages without my mother? What had happened to my mother during that time? Why did my father disappear from the album?
Just as I thought that we had begun a new chapter in our lives, I flipped the page again where I came face to face with that same look of sadness that had been haunting me throughout this journey. This time it was different. It was not found in a snapshot. Instead, it was staring back at me from a professional portrait of my mother and my grandmother. My grandmother seems to be hiding her evilness through her smile, but the eyes cannot lie. Her evil, so powerful, feels like a large ray of ultra-violet light burning a hole through my soul with her laser-beaming stare. However, my mother has that same troubling look on her face that she had when she was twelve years old. I pulled this photograph from its protective lining and went back in time to compare the two pictures. Once again, I could not tell if the look is one of sadness or worry. Could it be both? Is she just unhappy to be taking a picture with her mother? I whispered as I compared the two pictures.
As I continued to travel into the future, I begin to see my mothers life take a drastic change as she enters her mid to late thirties. Although still quite young and beautiful, something in her life has aged her and worn down her body even more than before. Her hair, which was always a luxurious, wavy, dark brown and styled with flowing curls, has turned into a mixture of gray and white waves, cut short and brushed straight back, flowing towards the back of her neck. Her travels have declined and have almost become non-existent. Instead of touring the countryside taking in the beauty of nature, she rests comfortably in her favorite recliner. She appears to be happy in all of the pictures from this point forward, but when I look deep into her eyes, beyond the paper and into her soul, I can see the sadness that has forever plagued her life. I questioned everything, What is this mysterious sadness that haunts my mother? Why did it choose her? What had she done that was so awful to deserve such sadness in her life?
As I came across the last set of our pictures, I remembered that this year my mother went back to her hometown in Iowa to see her father and her sister before Thanksgiving. When I asked if I could go with her, I remembered her telling me, No Sweetheart, this is something that I must do alone. Without questioning her, I gave her a hug, told her to drive carefully, and asked her to call me when she made it to her fathers house.
The joy she felt radiated through her eyes as she spent time with her family again. The sadness in her eyes had been buried so deep that I almost missed it. But as her eyes looked back at me from the photographs, I could feel it. I knew it was there . . . calling to me . . . whispering my name . . . daring me to find it. Then I thought to myself, But she looks so happy. Could it all be a well-rehearsed performance? Or maybe, just maybe. . . Could it be? Did she know? She could not have known. But maybe it was all an act. This must have been the way she wanted them to remember her, right? Is that it? Is that why she seems so overwhelmed with joy?
My hand began to shake as I lifted up the last page of the album. I had suddenly remembered what came next. I closed my eyes as the page fell down, revealing its contents. In my darkness, I recalled every detail of the single photograph that lay beneath the clear protective lining that preserved our precious memories. I, not my mother, had placed this photograph here. It was the last picture taken of my mother. It is not just a picture to me; it has always been something more . . . more than a memory frozen in time. It is a priceless, irreplaceable gift. As I slowly opened my eyes, I looked deep into my mothers eyes as I replayed the events of this unforgettable moment in my mind. She had just turned forty-five years old and I am only fifteen. My mother, sitting in her wheelchair on the front porch taking in the cool winter breeze, looked so peaceful. She had on a white sweater that she decorated with blue jays resting on top of a birdhouse that day. Her beauty radiates from her eyes; forcing its way out from beyond her tired and weak body that contained her soul. I was on my way out when I saw her sitting at the edge of the porch. I decided to surprise her. I quietly tiptoed behind her, grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and gently kissed her forehead. As I walked by the side of her wheelchair, she quickly grabbed my arm and pulled me close to her. Leaning by her side, my head laying on hers, she locks her arms around my right arm, holding me close to her in a warm embrace. Her love for me drowns out the mysterious sadness in her eyes and her smile is as real as the paper the photograph is printed on. Being the teenager that I was, I was in a hurry to pull away from our warm embrace.
If only I knew then, what I know now.
I would not have let go of her then, just as I cannot let go of her memory now. I can still feel her arms around me, holding me tight, never wanting to let go.
It is now thirteen years to the day later as I write this. I find myself sitting in front of a motivational poster hanging on the wall in front of me. The picture shows a little boy dressed in a white business shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tan slacks with the pant legs turned up to his ankles as he walks barefoot down a path to a gate, which leads to a white, sandy beach. It reads:
Priority
A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove. But the world will be a better place because I was important in the life of a child.
Forest E. Witcraft
I am in awe of the irony because I know that everything my mother did in her life she did for her children. She did not worry about how much money she had in the bank, or how fancy her house was, or the type of car she drove. The sadness that pursued her throughout her life did not discourage her. Instead, it motivated her to succeed at her priority in life. Her priority was loving her children. As a result, her love made a significant impact on my life by giving me the strength to go on without her.
I find it uncanny that I was destined to sit here, under this poster, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks, as I write this tribute to her life as it is seen through photographs.
In Loving Memory
of
Rosemary Ann Gray
1947 – 1993
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groovieknave reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a good story, depressing of course, but it’s well written. I couldn’t find much in here to complain about other than it isn’t something I like to read. Only two things, you had some words capitalized when they shouldn’t have been after a comma. Then, some words were too repetitive and it was only slightly annoying, but enough to make me think about it during the read.
I did enjoy your descriptions, I felt as though I could almost see the pictures the character was looking at. The only trouble I have with this is you left out what the character was doing while looking at them, which I think is important. I could imagine the pictures, but not someone going through a photo album. That kind of bothered me a bit.
These are just small issues, which you can easily fix if you want. Some people may find this story touching, but I just find it descriptive and realistic. I normally don’t find these types of stories interesting, so my review might be unfair.
Keep writing, you have great imagery!
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Korp reviewed Version 1 -
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It’s a nice piece, but towards the middle my attention waned. I think this would be better if you cut it down a bit in terms of description.
“His dark eyes glare right into my soul”
I thought that was pretty cliche. I would cut out most of the “soul” stuff in the story; it’s too vague and a bit too sappy.
“she had down so many times before?”
Done.
Make sure, when you’re using a word in the possessive sense (e.g. “mothers”) to add that apostrophe (e.g. “mother’s”).
“awe of the irony”
Isn’t it more coincidental than ironic?
The story is decent, but a bit too long-winded. With a little more polish it could be a lot better.
PeanutButter reviewed Version 1 -
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I’ve read a lot of non fiction recently, but none have touched me the way this one has. It’s a beautiful tribute that is well written, phrased, and delivered. My only suggestion is that the people that publish those chicken soup books might be interested in this, if not they are missing out on a truly moving piece of writing.
jweeble reviewed Version 1 -
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This story is a beautifully written tribute to your mother. It expresses your love, memories, and wonderings about her. Like most good literature, you raise questions that the reader ponders long after the piece is finished. I wish you knew answers to the questions about your mother’s life, or would write a story that explained them.
You have a few grammatical and punctuation errors. Because this is so lovely already, I don’t want to ignore them. You missed quite a few possessives throughout the piece for example
First paragraph:
mother’s voice
family’s captured
mother’s life
I won’t harp on the rest of them.
Third paragraph:
strapping dog, Ring,
The word glare seems out of place – stare – peer?
Lying not laying and no comma after memory
10:
enchanting, and I cannot
glare?
eyes, and I cannot
14:
I whispered as I compared the two pictures. delete unless you are using quotes.
18:
eyes, forcing
eyes, and her smile
23:
priority in life: loving her children
Overall this was lovely. Thank you for sharing.
pisces87 reviewed Version 1 -
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This piece reminds of the saying “a picture is worth a thousand words” I love to take pictures myself, and not one picture has a bad memory… so this is a very touching piece. Every picture brings a different memory to the writer, I love it! I hope it gets published
AstroBoyJ7 reviewed Version 1 -
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The emotions of the main character are a huge part of why this is such an interesting piece. The constant questions about her mother almost seem odd because it feels like this person never knew their mother at all. I find myself wondering if this person’s mother was abused a great deal, bi-polar, had ALS, (Lou Gehrig’s Disease,) or another long term terminal disease. The descriptions and the emotions are extremely powerful throughout but as a reader I found myself with more questions than answers here.
squarehopper reviewed Version 1 -
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I feel for your loss and offer my sympathies. This piece does convey your love and your mother’s love fairly well and you succeeded in making me feel.
But…
As a story, it does not work. Through-out the story you make a promise and kept repeating that promise to your reader…
That promise was your mother’s sadness in her pictures. By bring it up and the half picture… you made us feel as though something was coming to explain all that… But it never came.
Then you kept repeating about that sadness in her eyes…. again.. confirming the promise… by now we are salivating for a juicy piece of ? but it never came.
Then you tell us your Grandmother was evil… IS this the promise being kept? NO! You don’t tell us and yet you keep promising.
Then You tell us about her disappearing from the pictures and then your father… well I believe you were part of the family and yet you have no idea why? Ok… let’s say I believe you… so here is another promise you don’t keep.
As well as why she was happy visiting her family at home… is it because your grandmother finally died? You don’t tell us.
For this story to be publishable… you need to give us more than just promises.
Although, I suppose this may find a home in a magazine that publishes contemporary literary fiction… but I don’t think so.
Good luck!
themadnessicreate reviewed Version 1 -
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I liked how this was a piece of working memory, and yet, it was also a bit of a mystery. You leave the reader eager to attempt to solve the mystery of the sadness in your mother’s eyes. That part seemed empty, though, but that may be a thing of reality, so I wouldn’t recommend changing or not changing it.
One change I would recommend is finding different words for “memory/memories.” A thesaraus, of course, would be well-suited for that, but, also, be creative with it, create your own description of “memory.”
Overall, this sat almost as a tribute piece to me, and you did well on that. I enjoyed taking the time to read it, and I’m sure it was quite a time to write.
=]
mc_hammer reviewed Version 1 -
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THis story very much touched my heart. To write a story about someone that you care about so much, brought down by sadness, it was all very touching in a sad kind of way. Now I lov ethe way the title works with the story in a deep way. It is very true that when you look at a picture you try to read the minds of the people in teh pictures. HTis story was very well written, I hope you will be able to publish it.
tragic1366 reviewed Version 1 -
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i thought your story was insprational as well as colorful i love how you had described everything your story also had a very unique use of imagery and i also loved how you had described each and every picture i would love to see this piece in a magazine i enjoyed it very much
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