Photo Frames

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When I watched movies and tv in my formative years,
there were so many things I would see that I would dream of
having or seeing or doing
when ‘I grew up’.

Watching “Hart to Hart”
and imagining travelling all over the world.

Watching “Countdown”
and dreaming of being beautiful and famous.

Watching “Murder She Wrote”
and hoping for some mysterious and gorgeous stranger in my future.

And . . . . .

. . . . . I would watch countless shows and films
where there was a formal lounge room
with a shiny black grand piano.

And on the ebony lid of the beautiful musical instrument
would be a varied collection of photo frames.

Painted wood, metal, gilded, white, tiled, black, bejewelled.
They all contained the photos of family and friends from many generations.

They intimated a rich existence.
Lots of friends.
A close family.
Picnics and dinners.
Celebrations.
Laughter.
Love.

Through my teens and twenties and thirties,
I bought more and more photo frames.

I collected them.

Such a beautiful collection.

I have unpainted wood, shiny black lacquered, shabby white, metal with filigree, faux gilding, pearl-shell tiled, colourful, graceful silver, double hinged, large, tiny, modern, traditional.

I easily have over one hundred photo frames.

And they’re all in boxes.

It would be the ultimate falseness to have them on display.
A life lived – yes! – but a false representation
of my current life.

I’m alone.

It would be weird to imply otherwise.

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