Fragments Of Time

PART 1

When I was eighteen, my Mother asked me to visit Mr Kovalev. “It might be your last chance love” she said, with a powerfully earnest tone. He was a kindly old man who had lived next door to the family home my entire life. Although we didn’t speak often, he was a constant in my life, and Mum always encouraged me to call him Uncle Walter. She said it was a kindness to give him some sense of the family he didn’t have.

Uncle Walter had been a widower since before I was born, before my parents had even moved to the house next door, some thirty odd years ago. If he had children, he never mention them, but he was full of stories about his late wife, Vanya. When he spoke of her, his eyes glistened like a child recalling Disney Land, or perhaps like treasure twinkling in the lustful gaze of a pirate.

I knocked on the peeling front door and it creaked open a little. “Please come in” he called out, in a faded Belarusian accent.

He was sat in the usual spot; a brown corduroy chair angled slightly towards the window. More often than not, you would find him ignoring the view completely and staring intently at the old photographs placed in his lap. He seemed to be utterly transfixed by them.

“Beautiful Kelly!” he exclaimed when he saw me. You could tell from his energy that he wanted to spring from his chair and hug me, but it was no use. He channeled it into his smile instead.

He gestured for me to sit on the old settee he kept for visitors and we talked for what seemed like hours. I told him about my new life at university and the things I was learning. We talked about romance and food and music and travel. He regaled me with tall tales about his escape through Poland and we laughed until his voice was giving out. We always talked about photography.

Eventually, when it was time for me to leave, I went over to give him a customary kiss on the cheek.

“I want you to have something” he said. He leant, with some difficulty, over the arm of his chair and grabbed a vintage Kodak SX-70 camera. “Don’t worry, it still works” he smiled. I thanked him profusely for the unexpected gift, and as I went to take the camera, he placed his hand on mine.

“There are two shots left in this camera Kelly. It is a very special film, the only film of its kind left in the world. I wish there were more. Please… promise me you will use it carefully.”

I looked in his eyes and I could tell how much it meant to him. I promised. I said my goodbyes once more and moved through the kitchen to make my exit. As I pushed the door open, it’s wailing reminded me of Mum’s grave words. I quietly crept back through the kitchen to see Uncle Walter, once again, engrossed by his photographs. I quietly unfolded the camera and readied it for the shot. I lifted the viewfinder to my face and carefully framed the scene.

The camera clicked and it’s old mechanism gave birth to the photo with an urgent, whirring noise. Mr Kovalev looked up with a start. “Kelly? I told you that film was very special! Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re very special, Uncle Walter” I said, wearing the smile that he had taught me. He blinked a tear from his eyes.

“Promise me you will visit whenever you can” he asked.

“You know I will” I replied.

PART 2

My mother’s words turned out to be prophetic and Uncle Walter passed away in his chair a few weeks later. I think it may have been the same day I used the last photo to capture the setting sun over Lake Windermere.

I think he would’ve liked it; such a broad, romantic scene. The hills cloaked in rose and amber. The lake, glowing like a pool of fire against the ebony shore.

Uncle Walter was right, the film was very special indeed. Every detail was rendered with exquisite precision. The colours are so vibrant, so perfect I can feel the fading sun on my face.

I swear, some days I spend hours looking at that single frame. In my mind I can walk through the frozen landscape right to the shoreline. I can trace the tree bark with my fingers and pluck the falling leaves from the air. Sometimes I will kick off my shoes and paddle through the water. I am always surprised by how cold it is.

They say the lake is polluted now, with toxic blue green algae, but I will always have the lake of fire and the gentle scent of citrus and moss.

I visit Uncle Walter like this too.

It is a strange feeling. He always felt like a giant to me, even in his last years. Such a strong and burley man with a tendency to dress like a lumberjack, almost always clad in plaid. His presence seemed to grow beyond his frame as though he had too much life for his body to contain. When you spoke to Walter, it felt as though the centre of the universe was located in his breast.

But in this stillness he seems so small. Delicate like porcelain. His paper thin skin reveals the map of veins that cling to the scaffolding of his bones. He is almost a husk.

I talk to him anyway, and somehow I always know what he would say. How he would always counsel love and bravery. I regale him with stories of my own adventures, and, when it’s time to leave, I kiss him on the cheek. I am always surprised that it is warm. I look at the photos on his lap:

A candid photo of Vanya by the sink.

My Father pushing me on a swing in the front yard.

A dog without a name.