They were never intended for our eyes.
They were evidence. Family secrets. A life ruined.
But there they were. The telltale photos.
Glued onto yellowing pages. Hidden at the bottom of the chest.
Beneath embroidered lace, sterling silver platters.
Two leather-bound albums. Both smelled of patchouli, dust and despair.
On every page, there was someone missing. He had taken the scissors and carefully cut out his face from every family photo.
It was to foretell his future.
Removed from family. Removed from life.
He just gave up.
He died alone.
The chest resides in my living room.