Writing story The photograph
The Photograph
She found it in a dusty old box in the attic, hidden under a pile of old clothes and books. It was a black and white photograph of a young couple, smiling and holding hands. They looked happy and in love, oblivious to the camera that captured their moment.
She recognized them instantly. They were her grandparents, who had passed away when she was a child. She had heard stories about them from her parents, but she had never seen a picture of them before. She wondered who took the photograph, and when, and where. She felt a sudden curiosity to know more about their lives, their love, their secrets.
She decided to ask her mother, who was downstairs in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She ran down the stairs, clutching the photograph in her hand. She found her mother chopping onions, tears streaming down her face.
“Mom, look what I found!” she exclaimed, showing her the photograph.
Her mother gasped and dropped the knife. She wiped her eyes and took the photograph from her daughter’s hand. She looked at it with a mixture of shock and nostalgia.
“Where did you find this?” she asked.
“In the attic, in a box. Who took it? When was it taken? Where were they?” she bombarded her with questions.
Her mother sighed and sat down at the table. She motioned for her daughter to join her.
“This photograph was taken by your grandfather’s best friend, David. He was a photographer, and he liked to take pictures of people he cared about. He gave this photograph to your grandfather as a wedding gift. It was taken on their honeymoon, in Paris. They were so young and happy then.”
She paused and smiled sadly.
“They had a beautiful love story, your grandparents. They met when they were teenagers, at a dance hall. They fell in love at first sight, and they never looked back. They eloped when they were twenty-one, against their parents’ wishes. They moved to New York City, where your grandfather worked as a journalist and your grandmother as a librarian. They had two children, your uncle John and me. They loved each other until the end.”
She stopped and wiped a tear from her cheek.
“They died in a car accident, when I was twenty-five. You were only three years old then. You don’t remember them much, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Not really. I only remember their voices, and their hugs, and their smiles.”
She looked at the photograph again, trying to see them as they were.
“They look so happy,” she said.
“They were,” her mother said.
She hugged her daughter and kissed her forehead.
“They would have loved you so much.”
She smiled and hugged her back.
“I love them too.”
They sat there for a while, holding the photograph and each other, feeling the presence of their ancestors in their hearts.