I am the Archivist of Photographs

Hello. Mom, platinum

blond, seductive,

in your negligee.

Dad, in your plaid

shirt and dapper slacks,

with flannel arm draped over,

young Edward’s shoulder.

A mini you, in cuffed jeans,

He is a mini James Dean.

Now he thinks

he looks like a dork.

I am the archivist of that.

I have on my shelves,

My baby sister,

in her blue hooded jacket

Sitting with Fritzy,

on Grandma’s porch.

Her eyes are sad

as if she know her fate

and has willed it.

I am the archivist of this.

I have had you all restored,

Polaroids are now forgiving

black and white,

In silver frames

and bound family albums.

We all look clean,

Happy and handsome.

That’s a fiction…

I am the archivist of that.

I am all that is left

to write the family history,

who will be the archivist

of this?

Perhaps, they will end up

as meaninless artifacts,

out of context, on a dusty shelf

Of Saint Vincent De Paul?

After all. I hope not.

Cheryl Amy Hollander

2017 revised April 2018