Dust gathers around the four corners
of old boxes, wooden frames with markings
that could not be read because the wind
carved them with their wispy fingers.
The attic seems empty, no objects to kill the spaces
between the old phonographs and pictures.
Just faces. No names. Forgotten artists.
Hidden because of what they might reveal.
Maybe their music is hiding somewhere
in the shadows of moonlight and rain.
Waiting for someone to listen,
hold out their hand, or just stand by the lamppost.
It’s yellow-brown or it just wants to be that way.
Its sides dissolving with each touch,
its wrinkles covered with moss and cinders of memory.
Replaced. The missing pieces taped back.
The faces with names scribbled on its back,
a light blur yet legible,
somehow it’s still alive behind a wooden frame.
Passed on from hand to hand.
The young black hair,
unshed tears, and
Filled with color
a blue jacket, black jeans,
a tinge of brown on a left cheek.
The picture stands on a steel frame by the living room,
it sits there waiting for somebody to name the faces,
the white teeth by the mango tree, the brown frown
by the kitchen. A whisper of footsteps trudges
the empty hallways leaving a trail of dust
as a small hand brushes past the sofa and cabinets,
giving them life for a moment
with its reckless swaying and dancing.
“Who are these people in the picture?” a little girl
with a blue ribbon asked, taking the picture
in her wispy hands.
“Come let us go to the attic, I have a story to tell you…”
Joshua Berida is an Internet marketer who lives in the Philippines. He writes for a living for free. He has been published online and in print in various magazines. His blog: http://theblurbismyword.blogspot.com.