Lauren Scharhag writes

The Nostalgia Project

When my mother and stepfather downsized

from the house I grew up in to something

befitting retirees, there was almost forty years

of stuff shoved in basements and closets, despite

diligent garage sales and trips to Goodwill.

A heap of old photo albums came to me,

lone survivor of so many deaths, divorces,

and remarriages, a final loop of wool

in an otherwise unraveled garment.

One album went back to the 1920s,

with edge tabs and black pages,

falling apart, lost photos leaving behind

ghostly windows, all the faces unknown to me.

Others were from the 70s and early 80s,

sticky, yellowing leaves that have lost

their adhesiveness, whose cellophane sleeves

have grown loose and crinkled.

Some of the photos themselves are faded or scratched.

I dutifully begin scanning them so they can be

easily shared with distant relatives, to see if anyone’s

memories reach back that far, files labeled

and sorted to the best of my knowledge. I will

transfer the photos themselves to new albums

to try to preserve the original snapshots and Polaroids.

Twenty albums take me months to get through.

At the same time, I think, mere months

to preserve the artifacts of at least five generations?

That something that’s supposed to be so permanent

and historic can be so easily undone?