Pushing at the edges as with a deck of cards, Rhonda tapped the photos, turning the pile face up on the glass table-top. My heart turned as I willed my hands not to reach out to hurry the process. There on the table before her, she had the past. The departed. Ready to breathe life into sepia figures walking arm in arm down Pitt Street.
Detritus collected from the houses of our departed. Females of the line have it all over their men folk. Men toss everything into boxes, and up onto the back of a ute for yet another trip to the dump. They see it as just more junk that the silly old codger collected, whoever it might be, being totally unable to distinguish between an unused set of Egyptian cotton sheets and a box of aged birthday cards with an A5 piece of writing paper poking out.