The World of Myth Magazine

I found a photo album the other day, its cracked black leather holding pictures of a time and place I used to inhabit,

Inside were the smiling faces of relations long gone:

My parents, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and even the great-grandparents I visited in Astoria before we moved.

They appear youthful and smiling, as they sometimes are in my memories.

They always smiled for the camera even if at other times, their faces contorted with annoyance, impatience or rage.

But here, within these pages, time is frozen, the instant of happiness an eternal now.

Here's one of me in my carriage, dark eyes drinking in the visible world.

It is both me and not me.

Here’s one of my mother holding me close, her check pressed against mine. Although she appears happy, surrounding me with protective love, she was less so in real life.

Say “cheese”!

Here I am at the Jersey shore, alongside my brother and mother, holding the rope line where the waves break.

The camera captures me with my mouth wide open, the cold sea spray rushing around my knees, my bathing suit hanging off one shoulder, exposing one childish nipple.

Here is my older brother. He is dressed in shorts and sneakers, holding a ball and glove awkwardly. It is summer and we stand together in another photo, holding hands, as we were told to, the wind blowing his shirt, my sundress and my hair.

I never remember him this way.

In this one, we play in the sand alongside my father. We are both somewhat shy, I think. At least we look self-conscious.

I remember some of these moments vividly. Others are only a whisper, a texture or the smell of the ocean.

Here are my grandparents! I sit with them at the small kitchen table in the walk-up apartment.

“Walk on your toes,” my father would say, taking the steps two at a time, “we don't want to disturb the other tenants. And so, we did: one flight, then two, one more and we're there.

There are no photos of that staircase, but I remember every polished wooden step.

Here's a photo of my aunt, my mother's older sister and my grandmother's favorite. My mother knows this, has always known this, and despite the smiles they wear, the undercurrent of jealousies runs deep.

My aunt lived around the corner from us in Astoria until both families moved to Long Island. Rocky Point was their home, originally a log cabin built before indoor plumbing was a requirement. In these photos, it is nestled among ancient trees near the Long Island Sound.

We trekked to the outhouse with a flashlight, hearing crickets and seeing spiders, fearful of being alone in the darkness.

Here I stand at the top of the wooden stairs that took us down to the water's edge. The stairs seemed endless but the cool, inviting waters kept my small legs moving

Down, down, down to the rocky shore.

Pebbles, rocks and boulders of all shapes and sizes brought us closer to the shimmering small breakers. The photos can't capture them as they really were: a million cameos ranging in color from white to peach to mottled brown.

In this photo, I stand outside my father's childhood home. It is Easter Sunday. I am visibly uncomfortable from my expression. My coat seems ill-fitted and my broad hat sits awkwardly on my head.

Page after page, I watch myself and my family growing older. It is overwhelming, so much more than I can absorb.

So many memories! So many years gone by. Tiny tiles of a larger mosaic, or tiny threads assembled, a tapestry of many interwoven lives.

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