Fragments

I found a photograph 

pressed in the pages of a book 

at a thrift store 

a stranger 

smiling toward a future 

that never thought 

to remember his name 

The edges had begun to yellow, 

the image softening into time, 

and I studied his face 

the way archaeologists study ruins, 

assigning stories to details 

that cannot argue back 

Maybe he was happy 

Maybe he was lonely 

Maybe the smile 

was for someone standing 

just beyond the frame 

Was this moment 

the encapsulation 

of his entire life 

or just a random look 

noticed by a friend 

or a loved one?

Nothing happens in a vacuum 

Every forgotten photograph 

is surrounded by invisible gravity: 

loves, failures, arguments 

ordinary Tuesdays 

entire worlds collapsed 

into a square of paper 

And someday 

someone will find my face too 

They'll hold my words 

in their hands, 

sift through 

the sediment of my life 

mistake certainty for doubt 

sorrow for wisdom 

anger for conviction 

They'll build a version of me 

from whatever survived the fire 

Because memory 

is not preservation 

It is interpretation 

We inherit one another 

as fragments 

and spend our lives 

guessing at the missing pieces 

unaware of the unseen gravity 

that pulls them into place

© Ron Simpson Jr.

October 6, 2026