The Photo Box Poem by Patrick Guest

There was a box of photos gathering dust.
Too many years high up in the shelving.
We must get rid of some of this old stuff.
It broke apart taking it down. There was a scattering of lives.
Smiling youthful, line-less faces, all ageless images.
There were friends, relatives, forgotten strangers.
Bending to retrieve the past, I ache with my own age.
My breath is caught short seeing again those who had gone.
Spilled on the floor, their lives faded.
Some were of my age, we were so young.
What were they thinking then?
Of beer, of girls or boys, of philosophy 101 or of yesterday, of that day or their tomorrows?
I now see the older faces slithered quietly between the young.
My father in uniform shaking a hand to accept his rank.
Slim, serious, an officer, the war was on.
What were his thoughts, what could he do, would he go over?
Was he scared?
Were my mother and brother there?
My memory is failing to answer the questions never asked.
Why did I never ask? Now I want to.
Some of him is left behind.
Another one, you left us and you took some of my world with you.
Growing up together, I think of the times sitting, laughing, looking out at boats.
Talking about stuff.
So much of you is left behind.
Not just pieces but whole lives.
Just not you.
I almost called today then I remembered
The photos are back in the box, the memories stayed out.