Info: Amy/Stacy, The Ruins. For immortality.
A series of photos. Photos somehow not covered and tinted with green. Photos aged, and clear, and pristine.
First, they are five years old, looking at each other instead of the camera: Amy on the right, Stacy on the left. Stacy is knee-deep, covered in mud. Amy is laughing.
Then, seven or eight. Amy isn’t sure. Amy, in the picture, is pushing Stacy on a swing. They don’t start the planned photos until 8th grade. On the cusp of high school, on the cusp of adulthood. On the cusp of something…
Fourteen. At the last minute, Amy reaches to tuck back a loose hair, brushing her fingers against Stacy’s ear.
Fifteen, and their hands almost touch between them.
Stacy’s mother takes them to DC, to see all the museums. Sixteen: on the steps of the memorial, in the street, looking over the pond.
Twenty-one, sunburnt and drunk and smiling.
Twenty-two. Lipstick smudged. Hands held tight. Waiting for something to happen.
Amy recognizes that these are pictures of her. That she is the girl in these images. She knows these things and yet does not. She’d hold up a camera if she had one, point it down her arm at her face, and see, later, the space next to her.
They are all she has left, and even that is missing so much.