Still looking at old photos

Aunt Leslie is drunk and sprawled out in the rocking chair--laughing--about to pee her pants it's so funny--her patchwork pants. She's got blue keds on her feet, the left foot is pushed out in front of her like a forgotten part of her body. The beers made her leave it behind.

In another photo, Uncle John sits alone on the couch, drinking a stubbie and smoking a cigarette.

Maybe the two photos were taken just moments apart. I know that the rocking chair is just across the room from the couch. Though they sat there together, the camera could only capture them apart.

I am always moved by how young they look. Uncle John wears black socks, scuffed shoes. He looks like one of my friends. Aunt Leslie has long hair, wears little jewelery. She's a plain girl who likes to have a little fun.

My memory of them is different. So one sided. Gruff Uncle John--we weren't supposed to bother him. Aunt Leslie was tough. She took no bullshit. In the photos they are vulnerable, young, alive. I wonder if they remember those people?

Do they remember that linoleum? Red, black and blue overlapping geometric shapes. Do they still smell the knotty pine the whole cottage was built with? Do they trace the walking paths in their minds? From Aunt Lois' place to Grandma's? From the old dock to the new one? How do they walk back through their lives?

My photo daydream is interrupted by sounds from the kitchen. It's the mouse trap. A mouse is caught in the trap. Squeals for life. Loses life.

Maybe that's what's bothering me about these photos. They all feel like the instant before entering the mousetrap. The next moment the hinge comes down, and everything is fixed in place. But in these photos, they're not taking the bait. Everything is left open.