Boxes of them.
small plastic pieces of the past
images without identity save
the scrawl of year and trip.
What were we doing there? we
mutter, gawking at landscapes.
Who is that? we laugh.
We see ourselves as others saw us
in lives once frozen to a time now
forever made and unmade.
Our images preserved like summer fruit
stowed for later consumption.
Facsimiles with vague resemblance to
our present selves.
A projector bulb springs to life
and we are splayed upon a wall,
full color proof of life once spent
in a flicker of days long forgotten.
Published in Coneflower Cafe, Spring 2021