Andrew explains that in the early evening, he walked through a damp forest and discovered a
collapsed tent. He explains that it hadn’t been a home for many weeks—at least not many days.
Or so it appeared on that blustery afternoon, as photos blew among last fall’s leaves.
collapsed tent. He explains that it hadn’t been a home for many weeks—at least not many days.
Or so it appeared on that blustery afternoon, as photos blew among last fall’s leaves.
Now, the photos sit on his mantle, guarded by two tall candles and a semicircle of
pebbles. Andrew explains that it’s a shrine; these photos are not trophies.
“Look, the camp was abandoned. Moldy pizza rotted in its box. If I hadn’t picked them
up, they’d be ripped apart and gone.”
Darkness settled in the woods as he searched for each and every picture. He explains that
his heart beat quickly; there wasn’t time to think. Before his eyes, the forest floor was vanishing
into the night. But the sun shone the next day, when Andrew stood in the nearby gas station parking lot.
He explains that the smell of diesel wafted and filled his nostrils, that heat rose visibly from the
cracked asphalt, and that sweat fell from each and every pore. He grew lightheaded.
cracked asphalt, and that sweat fell from each and every pore. He grew lightheaded.
He explains that she sat zonked on the curb, probably high. He explains that she slurred
her speech. “Hey sweetie, do you have some papers?”
He explains that he didn’t have any papers. So he replied, “No. Sorry.”
He did have something else though, and he got the sense that ordinarily, when she wasn’t
on this curb, she might live in that tent. Or she might have something else to do with the photos
now on his mantle, then a light weight in his shirt pocket: these photos of a Native family, which
practically blew into his palm.
He explains that she only asked about the rolling papers. He explains that the connection
he drew was really more of a passing thought. He explains, “Nobody’s perfect. And I’m going to
dedicate my life to these photos, and the people in them.”
he drew was really more of a passing thought. He explains, “Nobody’s perfect. And I’m going to
dedicate my life to these photos, and the people in them.”
The pictures are black and white: a Christmas tree, lights subdued but spilling across the
frame—next to a smiling little girl, squatting in a happy grassy backyard and giggling, her pitch
so high, so opposite from the elderly woman, framed on the other side of the pine, standing with
solemnity in a sprawling, overtaking garden.
The tomato plants have grown almost to the woman’s elbows. They are so ripe and so red
they almost burst into color.
In a few years, maybe he’ll store the photos in a cardboard box in the cellar. Maybe a
flood will ruin them. But for now—after blowing among the fall leaves from happy grassy
backyard to damp forest tent, after travelling cross-country from abundant garden to gas station
parking lot—they’ve arrived on this white 20-something’s mantle, not far from the used tissues
on his floor or the stash of weed beside his bed.
He explains that he keeps them safe. He explains that he ought to have them.
Dani Kington is a queer, trans fiction writer and journalist living in Appalachian Ohio. They studied literature and creative writing at Ohio University and volunteered as a reader for New Ohio Review. They are a cofounder of the local news nonprofit, the Athens County Independent.
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