During the summer, on one of my walks through Greenpoint, Brooklyn, I wandered into a store called Junk, which has since closed. It was a cheerful place but its name was not inappropriate — the stock ran to old furniture, mismatched china and trays of old silverware. On one table a large box overflowed with Kodachrome slides, apparent castoffs from people's vacations. Nearby another box held portraits of long-gone people. The fact that these were formal portraits made me think these people had been important to someone once. I wondered how their photos came to be abandoned. In the end, I picked out two and brought them home.
I can't decide how old this young man is, but he's young. He's standing on a dirt path, but he seems proud of himself. He's planning to go places; just look at that stare.
And then there is this dear little person with her tiny boots and basket of flowers. I hope she had a chance to grow up and grow old, but she worries me. How did she end up among the junk at Junk?