Come see me.
Three days later, Maya sat in a South Side living room surrounded by five generations of photographs.
Vanessa, silver-haired and soft-spoken, brought out a wooden trunk scarred by age.
“My great-grandfather carried this from Mississippi,” she said.
“He never let anyone open it.”
Inside lay hundreds of glass plate negatives and three leather-bound journals.
Maya’s hands shook as she turned the pages.
Names. Dates. Notes.
Then she found it.
September fourteenth, nineteen hundred.
Coleman family.
Six portraits. Continue reading…
