A Burning Memory
Elizabeth, New Jersey
October 24, 2095.
Dear journal,
I walked into a flea market today. There were a few strange items that Irene told me not to pick up out of fear of them being haunted, demented, or sweat stained. Our three year anniversary was last night. We celebrated down the harbor; all I wanted was to be with her, and thankfully we did just that. We could see the skyline accentuated by office windows and apartment noise. The buildings begged to be cleaned, begged to find a renewal of their lives.
The general disposition of the town was as if the golden years were behind it. The people seemed to go through the motions of everyday life, seeking glimmers of a present filled with meaning.
We walked into a flea market. From crates of old farming equipment, to gnomes missing their legs or mugs missing their handles, the market felt like the crumbled ruins where memories went to be both immortalized and forgotten. Dust rose as we stepped into the beige store. The eyes of old paintings watched us as we crept through.
Like adolescents missing childhood, watching their family gain greying hairs, what was in the market felt like the statue of Ozymandias: A once-great empire will always fall to the ripples and distortions of time.
I walked further into the store and saw a stack of tattered photos. I picked up a handful featuring a group of smiling people. Two men stood in the middle of the photo, the sides faded out but their shared smiles were still visible. “Tio Mercho’s 70th birthday party,” I read to Irene. “What year is that from?” she asked. “June, 2024,” I read back slowly to her.
Photo Courtesy: Michael Angee
My eyes widened. This had been 71 years earlier by an unknown photographer in an unknown location.
The next photo in the stack was titled: “Me and T, San Francisco, March, 2024.” There were two people in this one, maybe a brother and sister?
Photo Courtesy: Michael Angee
They seemed so chipper to be around one another, maybe they shared a lot of common interests and the older sibling deeply influenced the younger. Though, that was only my speculation.
As I delved deeper into the stack, I saw the chronicle of someone’s life, someone who I’ll never meet, someone who likely once stood in stores such as this one. Another person that was looking for meaning. Another person who was looking for something in the memorabilia of the lives of other people. Was the past just a story we tell ourselves?
Glenn Miller’s “Sunrise Serenade” began to play over the speakers. There was something deeply nostalgic about looking through a view finder that peered almost a century into the past.
As we stared at the photos, we gained this ability to look into the future of this stack. By flipping through 10 or 15 photos, we could see five years of someone’s life in just moments. From one point to the next, this story had been condensed into the few dozen pictures we found.
I turned towards an envelope. “Highschool, Miami 2019-2023.” In the first first photo under this label, the same boy sat nearest to the camera. It was a selfie this time. “Hunter, Gabe, and I in the back seat going to prom. 2023.”
Image Courtesy: Michael Angee
Like brothers, they rode into a distant future. They sat unsure but excited. Next to each other, they approached scenes that would fill the next bout of photos. Colors that once shone vibrantly dimmed as the story of many young lives unfolded through the stack of photos. Is this what the 20s looked like for teenagers in Miami?
There was a wardrobe next to the right of us, brown, with decorative carvings, about six feet tall. “Everything inside for sale!” it read. We grabbed the handle and the dresser creaked in dismay. A shoe box fell out, spilling another dozen photos on the ground. Above them, an assortment of graphic T shirts, dress shirts, pants, tattered shoes. I crouched down to the frantic shoe box and inspected.
More photos! This time bundled up by a flimsy string of yarn, “UF, 2023-2027.”
The recurring boy stood in groups of people at concerts, house parties, and a football stadium. Those around him were equipped with laughter and charisma. People with dyed hair, cameras, black boots, crushed cans.
Image Courtesy: Michael Angee
This feeling of nostalgia for a past that to me never occurred filled my spirit. Another photo of him and three others occupied the palms of my hands. It simply read “Roommates. 2025” on the back.
Image Courtesy: Michael Angee
The photos had more tears and withered edges as we felt like we grew to know the folks in the pictures. They stood with one another embracing the present moment, not thinking about someone finding the product of the cameraman’s work decades later.
The photos faded, but their spirit never really did.
Strike out,
Writer: Michael Angee
Editor: Hailey Indigo
Michael Angee is an editorial writer and photographer for Strike Magazine GNV. If he’s not occupied with writing for Strike, you can find him speaking to random people at local music shows and annoying his friends with whatever piece of media he's made his personality at the moment. You can reach him on instagram @michael_angee / @asymmetry.ent or via email @michaelangee@ufl.edu.
