The Man in the Family Photos

The CampfireThe openingFree

When my grandmother died, my mom and I spent a week cleaning out her house. Fifty years of stuff. And in the back of a closet, in a cedar chest, we found the photo albums.

There were eleven of them. Leather. Heavy. Going all the way back to 1890. My great-great-great-grandparents. Weddings. Christenings. Family reunions. Picnics. Christmas. Generation after generation of my family, lined up and smiling at cameras.

We sat on the floor of her bedroom and went through them all, one by one. My mom told me who everyone was. She knew almost all of them.

Almost.

We noticed him in a family reunion picture from 1952. About forty people, lined up on the lawn of my great-grandfather's farm, in rows. Kids in front. Adults behind. Old people in chairs.

And at the very back, in the last row, a little apart from everyone, a man. Tall. Thin. Dark suit. A hat.

"Who's that?" I said.

My mom squinted. She didn't know.

"A neighbor, maybe," she said. "Or somebody's husband."

His face was blurry. Like he'd moved when the picture was taken. The only blurry face in the photograph.