The photograph hung in his office.
Over a hundred years old,
the fresh faces of the graduates
were solemn, but hopeful.
of the young men,
proud of their group,
and of their accomplishments.
His grandfather was young then,
in a suit and starched collar,
bow tie with a perfect knot,
staring at the photographer,
ready to face an uncertain future.
The parchment captured his optimism;
and, if you listened closely,
you could hear the possibilities
he expressed,
and the voices of his band of brothers,
ready to thrive in a new century.
But, history is a tale told by the living,
and lasts only as long as they survive.
In two years,
they would be at war.
No new offices for them.
No taking care of business.
The bombshells would shatter
the quiet of the photograph,
and some of the images would be fixed in time,
forever.
Some, like his grandfather,
would return alive,
but damaged.
They would build new lives,
and make new photographs.
Some would leave nothing but an image
of young men,
unaware of war,
and filled with serious resolve.
They still speak
with the wisdom of the dead.