At home is a wooden chest. It’s the sort of chest one would expect to find in the corner of old rooms in old homes, where the past is stored, its existence acknowledged, quietly, but its details firmly out of sight. Hidden, concealed, by the wood of fallen trees. The elephant in the room, when the stream of the present tumbles over into the abyss of the inevitable future. It smells of once upon a time.
And once upon a time, someone placed within the old wooden chest a battered iron box. It waited, patiently hidden, for me.
In the battered iron box, nestled at the bottom of an old wooden chest, was my grandfather’s Number 2 Brownie. I went and bought myself some film and illuminated the dark chamber for the first time in decades, since my nonno last put it down.
It’s seen a few more exposures since then, and the digital scans of some are shown in these pages. Sadly, my grandfather’s images remain hidden by time.