Bertha rode home in my pocket book.

I went antiquing today. In a musty old booth, I met Bertha. Now Bertha is no average woman. She fits in the palm of my pudgy hand. She's framed by pink and fingerprints. She will for ever rest on scratched tin, rusting a little on the back, looking ever cross. There is a fair amount of negative space above her head and her sides. I think the negative space only reflects the negative pose, the negative pout she gives. Yet, there is something in her eyes and a little something in the corner of her mouth that makes me think that there is something more to Bertha than the negative. There is something sharp about Bertha. I imagine that her tongue was even sharper than the corner of tin she lives on, is frozen to.
I'll never know who Bertha really was. I'll never know what she was really like. Was her heart as cool as the metal I'll carry around forever? Was she sharp? Did she only look hard? Why did she tuck her hand under just that way? Why that dress that day? What was the cause, the reason for the picture? I'll never know how she wound up at that antique store. I'll never know who forgot her. I'll never new who felt free enough of her eyes to give her away.
Seems like there is a lot I don't know. What I do know is that she reminds me of my portfolio from this summer. She reminds me of everything forgotten, and then found again. Maybe it's not that she's forgotten but in the end after everything, remembered. Maybe that's what gets me. Maybe that's why I spent my entire summer shooting things people just forgot about. Everything forgotten has the opportunity, the privilege to be found again.............to be remembered.