Those Who Tell Stories

Abstract

Those Who Tell Stories These photographs are too quiet. People I know stare with open mouths. They are trying to speak— perhaps a warning. (I look over my shoulder to make sure.) Some point off beyond the white border. I hold the picture at a slant, trace the finger to see what it is. There is nothing but a thin line. There are other pictures with people I don't know. We study each other, watching closely for movement. They are dissolving into the brownness of the paper. Before they are gone they will tell stories. I will put my eyes closer and read each grain. They examine the camera motionless. The earth they stand on could be dark. From these lands come the deliberate. These are the people of War, West Virginia or a county in Ohio. They have dirt under their nails and I can smell fields and churches and pig sties in their hair. I touch the photograph covering their lives with my thumb. They have told me all I can understand. I will give them back to a box. They will be still again. They know stillness. Most of them have died once. Terri Lockhart ^n .# 4 ...