The room was filled with
bookshelves, dusty with years and stories. Worn spines and tattered edges lined
the shelves. The titles varied from cookbooks to babies to religion. She tried
to imagine who had bought these books in the first place. The Ethics of Travel was definitely her grandmother. Her
grandfather probably purchased the plethora of ESP books, she smiled at the
thought of her grandfather trying to channel another soul. Vitty had no idea
where the DIY books for building a table or a TV stand came from, she was not
sure she had ever seen a DIY project in her family. The collection of books was
as diverse as the needs of the family who owned them. These shelves were a
lifetime of pleasure, unfinished projects, research, and memories.
Vitty’s finger rested on a blue
book, the binding worn white. It was an old 1954 yearbook. Vitty’s grandmother’s
high school name was embossed along the spine. She pulled the book from the
collection of albums and photography guides and opened the cover. Vitty
delicately flipped through pages filled with black and white faces of teenagers
from generations past. Each picture held a story, but any onlooker had no way
of knowing how each one began or ended. Every face was nameless. Yet Vitty
could relate to each one, they were yet another American adolescent: each one
working through high school, waiting for their life start, their journey to
unfold. She wondered if they were sitting with their grandchildren now. Did the
high school quarterback wind up with the cheerleader high school sweetheart,
and have the perfect small town family? Did the captain of the quiz team become
a leader in Microsoft? Did they have the
same fears for their lives, families, and happiness that she had now? How did
their story end?
There is no way of knowing these
answers. The story behind each smile, each gaze, and each photograph is locked
in the pages. The only way to expose the tales is through someone who was
there, but even then, each person would tell the story of a photograph
differently. Depending on if they were the math team president who was bullied
by the football team, the next-door neighbor who just wanted her first kiss, or
the boy who know one really understood " one photograph could tell four different
stories.
Every yearbook looks the same in structure, but each one is
filled with different stories and faces. Everyone can relate to a yearbook, but
no one can guarantee what’s in it, or what comes out of it.
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