photographs

a story about a man who has lost everything dear to him, but has them saved in photographs

The calloused fingers of the old man brushed the surface of the faded old photographs. They were happy times, much happier than the times he was enduring now. The old Polaroid lay, old and disused on the drawer counter. He picked it up, and set it down, next to the expensive digital camera. The camera beeped faintly, and signaled that its battery was near dead. He ignored the soft beeping, and tottered into the dark room. The light bulb cast a bleaching sepia glow on the walls. Glass panes gleamed in the dull light. The old man had no more use for the bulb. He unscrewed it, and screwed in the “energy efficient” fluorescent bulb. The room was now bathed in a white light, and the photos on the wall became garishly clear.

The man looked around forlornly, and started to browse the pictures.

The photograph of his wedding day was contrasted in stark black and white. He looked so smart, dressed in that suit. With a pang of nostalgia, he remembered that it was rented. The bride was simply radiant in the photograph. His brother, his best man, his wife… so many of them were gone now. He looked around and lighted on another picture.

His children smiled at him from the picture. He caressed the picture, chemical stained fingers leaving streaks across the glass. Leong, Cheng and Hong, his three darling children. How he missed them. Of course, they were all gifted in academics, a father’s dream come true, but eventually, they had left. Leong had become a successful businessman in a country whose name the old man could not pronounce. He had even changed his name to Alex. The old man could not comprehend the meaning of the name; his rudimentary English was not sufficient. Cheng was a lawyer, and was rarely at home, and Hong had married into a rich family. A tear of loneliness rolled down a weather-beaten cheek. How he missed his three bundles of joy. He tore his gaze from the picture, and turned away. He calmed the ache in his heart. For the last three years, they had not come to visit him, even during the Chinese New Year. Every single day, he had meticulously cleaned the house, and waited by the front door with New Year goodies, eagerly awaiting their arrival, but none had come. The only consolation was that they still managed to pay his upkeep. The old man rubbed the tears away, and turned to the next photograph.

A color picture, this one, he thought to himself. And with a fresh stab of pain in his heart, he stroked the thin waxed sheet of paper. His wife smiled at him from the picture. He could not stop the tears now; they came quick and fast, rolling uncontrollably from milky eyes, down weathered cheeks. Swee Leng, his faithful wife of sixty-eight years. She had been dead for many months, now, but the pain was still fresh in his eighty-nine year old heart. The ashes were kept in a jar on top of the family altar in the living room. He still paid a considerable sum to the Buddhist monks, to help perform the rituals that would keep her safe in the next life. His children did not understand his strange practices, and often complained resentfully that the cost was increasing year after year. He ignored them. Married as they were, they had no idea what it was like to lose their soul-mate. Swee Leng was so much more than his wife. They had been best friends since young, and she was his pillar of support. Without her, the vociferous, ruddy giant of a man had shrunk pitiably. His flesh hung in folds off the skeletally thin frame. His grief filled his heart, and he remembered the funeral. Relatives were joking and consoling him good naturedly. How could they be so flippant about the death of his wife? He had internally raged. He had spent so many years, so many countless hours by his wife’s side. Even on her deathbed, as she had slowly relinquished her hold on life, he stayed by her side, a wild animalistic grief filling his heart, and even now, a year later, the crushing ache had not diminished.

A howl of grief filled the air and the old man crumpled painfully to the floor. His breath came in short gasps, and he sobbed uncontrollably through the haze of pain. His hands, large and calloused, cradled the balding head, as the sorrow-wracked body of the old man rocked back and forth on the cold marble tiled floor. His legs drew back into his body, and he sat in a fetal position, crying. His heart ached, and he scrabbled in his pocket, reaching for the medicine. The pill nestled deep inside his pocket, and he paused. The ache was getting worse. He retracted his hand and clutched at the pain in his chest, as the crushing agony in his chest grew worse. He took a deep breath, and then gasped. The pulse, strong for eighty-nine years stopped. The world grew hazy and the photographs on the wall seemed to leap at him. He crashed sideways from his kneeling position onto the floor. He felt the dull ache, but that seemed to slip away from him too. He forced an agonizing smile on his lips. He was not that far from Swee now. He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt a crushing pressure surround him.

The huddled shape of the old man lay still on the floor. The photographs hung up on the wall were still gleaming, but now, there was no one to see them.

Reviews

[lrigD]

This was very sad, but very descriptive and it really got to me. Photographs are so telling sometimes, and I love reading (and writing) about them. You did a good job!

[The_Dreamer]

Great story! Sad theme...you managed it very effectively

[Undying Glory]

wow man great story, and i just love the ending, wonder why no one's reviewed this yet. anyway awesome write