A long time ago in a shop in Spokane, there was a wood barrel full of photos. Old photos taken perhaps from albums of people who had died. I bought a handful--no year, no ID. Every once in a while, they resurface and I gaze at the now familiar faces of these nameless friends in black and white. Two children watching a hen and her fluffy chicks. A man with a baby on his shoulder, wearing his dad’s huge driving cap. A girl in her Sunday dress, seriously contemplating the comics page. A woman with dishevalled pinned-up hair and rimless glasses, looking from behind a manual typewriter. The woman is dwarfed by a stack of papers in the foreground.

I have especially loved what looks to be two sisters before a brick wall, their skirts not quite revealing dark-stockinged ankles. Hair unpinned by a breeze. One hugging the other from behind. Both with spontaneous attitude and so very happy.