• When I was still about five years of age, I can recall a specific memory about an old box. Being only five years old, I could still tell that the box itself was a work of genuine art. The smooth edges, intricate design and artwork taunted me as a child. I used to trace my fingers along it's surface,following the thin lines of paint all the way through it's design. The artist must have been severely talented, now that I think on it. . . .

    As a child, I wasn't told not to touch or open the box, which I found peculiar, for my mother barely tolerated me touching any other boxes she had in the house. Despite the lack of rule to not open it, I felt its importance, even as a child and all through my years, never laid a hand on its bronze latch. I kept it polished and shiny, for I'd always thought that such a box must carry something valuable inside. Never in my life would I have imagined what was actually in it. . .

    One day, I was ridden with teenage angst over some trivial subject. I was in a terrible mood, throwing myself about my room with a seemingly permanent scowl on my face. I'd threw objects of sorts around my room in an unjustified rage and in my ferocity came upon the box. I'd held it in my hands so gently, though anger was coursing through me. My entire body was shaking as a small voice inside me told me it'd be best to put it down. Let it alone. However, an even louder, more rebellious voice inside me spat at me all the reasons I should open it. That voice . . . so persuasive and reasonable . . .

    I reached for the latch of the box, squeezed my eyes shut and swung the lid open. I'd done it. The box was open. But my eyes were so hesitant to open. After forcing them to open, I looked down at the box. My jaw was fully extended as I discovered that the mysterious treasure inside was . . . a stack of photographs.

    Disappointed, I sifted through them. They were all black and white but there was something peculiar about them . . . As if they carried some kind of supernatural secret. . .

    Ba-dump Ba-dump

    I could hear my heart in my ears as I came to a certain photograph. It was a photograph of me. Automatically one might think, upon hearing this, that I meant it was a baby picture of me. No. Not in the least. I stared down at the picture in disbelief, there, in black and white, was my smiling face, about the age I am now. In the back ground, I see a clock which read the time as 4:17. Insanity heightens when I look over to my clock and see that it read the same time as the one in the picture. I study the photograph more carefully.

    It's a picture of me, in the doorway of my room, smiling. I was wearing the same cloths I wore in the picture. In the small view I can get, I see my room is neat, and orderly with the mysterious box still lying on top of my desk, never being opened still.

    I look around at the messy state of my room at the moment, and start to wonder about the picture. I look at another picture.

    It's of me, at a restaurant with maybe the most beautiful I've ever seen. I'm about a few years older in that picture.

    I look at the next to see a picture of me and the girl from the restaurant standing in an archway. In the picture I'm looking down nervously with a small box behind my back and the girl has a puzzled look on her face.

    I look to the next picture.

    I'm maybe . . . in my twenties, at an altar, kissing the girl from the restaurant. Only she's got this dress on. Big. White. With flowers arranged in her hair.

    I keep on going through the pictures for what seems like hours. Photo after reveling photo.
    In my head I'd narrate,
    "There I am with a baby."
    "There I am holding hands of a little girl"
    "There I am on a boat."

    There I am, There I am, There I am.

    My stack of photographs has depleted almost completely. I look down at the second to last photo in my hand.

    Its of me, old and gray on a porch swing. My wife beside me, holding my hand tightly and smiling into the non-existent camera.

    I put that photo down to look over my last picture, thinking it would reveal a horrible death scene. But all it is, is the box, in all it's glory. Closed shut, firmly.

    I blink and suddenly, its changed. The picture now clearly shows the box open. Setting free all the secrets inside. I watch in horror as all the other photos begin to change as well. Only, they're not changing . . . they're just turning white. Blank. A mystery.

    I lurched forward, my head was reeling. A part of me feels torn out. With this feeling, I somehow know that the life I'd seen the those pictures was no longer mine to live.

    And so here I am . . . Many years later. . . Gray and old . . . with no one beside me. Just myself, and the constant squeak of this porch swing. . . My only company . . . is this open box beside me.