The Photograph: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a young woman grapples with identity in a post-apocalyptic world
I have visited the old man regularly for the past three months. Each time I see him, he presents to me a photograph of the world as it once was, and tells me a story about each of them.
“Do you know what this is?” he would ask each time.
Naturally, I would not—because in a world that has since fallen, where borders no longer exist and people fight to survive each passing second, children know little of the world past, let alone pictures of the world before the fall of civilization. It isn’t necessary, many would claim, to learn of a world that once was, and will never be again.
Of course, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to know more.
On this particular day, during which the sun shines brightly through the large windows that adorn the front of the museum, I repeat a ritual I have done daily. I rise from my weathered covers. I reach for the glasses that have a crack on one lens and place them on my face. I crawl from bed, and wander through the crowd of sleeping bodies, where I make my way toward the stairwell atop which the old man works. He does his best work first thing in the morning, when there is more light; and if I do not catch him at this hour of opportunity, he is not likely to answer the questions I have to ask.
Like this place, the stairs have not aged well. They snap and creak with each step upon them, announcing to any who happen to be nearby the presence of the climber. As one of the few who tend to the old man regularly, I know he will be expecting me.
At the top of the stairway, I lift my eyes to survey the old paintings—masterpieces defaced by time and vandals long past. The artist’s names have been purposely removed to deny them their expression, which, in many ways, is not surprising.
This world is cruel, and those within it will do cruel things as a result.
The sound of shifting papers alerts me that the old man is already up and at his work, which prompts me to make my way through the dappled rays of sunshine piercing in from the skylights and toward the table that rests nearby.
“Harmony,” the old man says as I approach.
“Sir,” I reply.
“How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”
“The same as ever,” the old man offers, before lifting his eyes to face me. “I’m glad you came. I have something to show you.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“A photograph.”
“Naturally,” I say, a smile curving my lips. “But of what?”
He opens a small book, which is something I have heard him call a Bible, and pulls from between its yellowed pages a photograph face-down. He then extends it toward me, and says, “Look.”
I turn the photo over to find a picture of an old statue.
“Can you tell me what it is?” the old man asks.
“It’s a photo of something my mother used to call the Statue of Liberty,” I say, and ponder the image of the statue when it was in its prime, before time and erosion had caused much of it to collapse into the ocean surrounding what was once called Long Island.
“And what did the Statue of Liberty stand for?”
“My mother said it stood for many things.”
“Like what?”
“The idea of freedom. A sense of purpose. A… a declaration of… of independence.”
The old man watches me with soft, careful eyes, which I try to avoid as his gaze settles evenly upon me. The idea of my mother’s greatest story—about a gift given to another through a united effort, from one country to another in a world that is now unlike our own—has not been lost upon me, especially since she died from a sickness that our medicine man was unable to treat. It is one I have held dear since that day six months ago, when me and my band of travelers took shelter in the old museum.
“You found this for me,” I say.
“I did,” the old man says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why do you think?” he replies.
“Because,” I then say—and this time, I can’t help but choke on the words that come out next. “Because you knew it would remind me of her.”
“There are some things that we hold dear throughout our lives,” the old man says. “Some are people, others are things. But if I’ve come to know anything in life, it is that stories are one of the most powerful things that someone can hold dear.”
I remember them quite clearly, those days with my mother, when from beyond the wreckage of the island we would use to look toward the old statue, which she often called the Lady of Freedom. She would tell me that the Lady was a beacon of hope, and would offer guidance to many; and though I had once sought hope in the remnants of her weathered, skeletal form, I had found that she could offer little more than sadness.
But here, and now… with this photo…
I find that I am like a child all over again, swept into the majesty of the past, safe from harm within my mother’s arms.
With a heart broken like old China, yet healed by gratitude at the same time, I look up at the old man, and say, “Thank you.”
“It is up to you to carry the torch,” the old man says. “Remember something, Harmony, and remember it clearly: never let your stories die. They have worth no matter where they come from.”
“I won’t,” I say.
I turn and walk back down the stairs, holding the photo close all the while.
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