I have visited the old man regularly for the past three months. Each time I see him, he presents to me a photograph of the world as it once was, and tells me a story about each of them.
“Do you know what this is?” he would ask each time.
Naturally, I would not—because in
a world that has since fallen, where borders no longer exist and people fight
to survive each passing second, children know little of the world past, let
alone pictures of the world before the fall of civilization. It isn’t necessary, many would claim, to learn of a world that once was, and will
never be again.
Of course, that doesn’t stop me
from wanting to know more.
On this particular day, during
which the sun shines brightly through the large windows that adorn the front of
the museum, I repeat a ritual I have done daily. I rise from my weathered
covers. I reach for the glasses that have a crack on one lens and place them on
my face. I crawl from bed, and wander through the crowd of sleeping bodies,
where I make my way toward the stairwell atop which the old man works. He does
his best work first thing in the morning, when there is more light; and if I do
not catch him at this hour of opportunity, he is not likely to answer the
questions I have to ask.
Like this place, the stairs have
not aged well. They snap and creak with each step upon them, announcing to any
who happen to be nearby the presence of the climber. As one of the few who tend
to the old man regularly, I know he will be expecting me.
At the top of the stairway, I
lift my eyes to survey the old paintings—masterpieces defaced by time and
vandals long past. The artist’s names have been purposely removed to deny them
their expression, which, in many ways, is not surprising.
This world is cruel, and those
within it will do cruel things as a result.
The sound of shifting papers
alerts me that the old man is already up and at his work, which prompts me to
make my way through the dappled rays of sunshine piercing in from the skylights
and toward the table that rests nearby.
“Harmony,” the old man says as I
approach.
“Sir,” I reply.
“How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”
“The same as ever,” the old man
offers, before lifting his eyes to face me. “I’m glad you came. I have
something to show you.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“A photograph.”
“Naturally,” I say, a smile
curving my lips. “But of what?”
He opens a small book, which is
something I have heard him call a Bible, and pulls from between its yellowed
pages a photograph face-down. He then extends it toward me, and says, “Look.”
I turn the photo over to find a
picture of an old statue.
“Can you tell me what it is?” the
old man asks.
“It’s a photo of something my
mother used to call the Statue of Liberty,” I say, and ponder the image of the
statue when it was in its prime, before time and erosion had caused much of it
to collapse into the ocean surrounding what was once called Long Island.
“And what did the Statue of
Liberty stand for?”
“My mother said it stood for many
things.”
“Like what?”
“The idea of freedom. A sense of
purpose. A… a declaration of… of independence.”
The old man watches me with soft,
careful eyes, which I try to avoid as his gaze settles evenly upon me. The idea
of my mother’s greatest story—about a gift given to another through a united
effort, from one country to another in a world that is now unlike our own—has
not been lost upon me, especially since she died from a sickness that our
medicine man was unable to treat. It is one I have held dear since that day six
months ago, when me and my band of travelers took shelter in the old museum.
“You found this for me,” I say.
“I did,” the old man says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why do you think?” he replies.
“Because,” I then say—and this
time, I can’t help but choke on the words that come out next. “Because you knew
it would remind me of her.”
“There are some things that we
hold dear throughout our lives,” the old man says. “Some are people, others are
things. But if I’ve come to know anything in life, it is that stories are one
of the most powerful things that someone can hold dear.”
I remember them quite clearly,
those days with my mother, when from beyond the wreckage of the island we would
use to look toward the old statue, which she often called the Lady of Freedom.
She would tell me that the Lady was a beacon of hope, and would offer guidance
to many; and though I had once sought hope in the remnants of her weathered,
skeletal form, I had found that she could offer little more than sadness.
But here, and now… with this photo…
I find that I am like a child all
over again, swept into the majesty of the past, safe from harm within my mother’s
arms.
With a heart broken like old
China, yet healed by gratitude at the same time, I look up at the old man, and
say, “Thank you.”
“It is up to you to carry the
torch,” the old man says. “Remember something, Harmony, and remember it
clearly: never let your stories die. They have worth no matter where they come
from.”
“I won’t,” I say.
I turn and walk back down the
stairs, holding the photo close all the while.