Every time I go upstairs I see her, from her perch atop my enormous old Silvertone radio. Peering out from her frame, she wears a barely coaxed smile on her lips.
I confess that I bought her because I was drawn to her frame. Obviously homemade, and, by the looks of it, someone's fledgling attempt at woodworking. That was the charm.
What I found, though, was that I couldn't bring myself to remove her picture. She belonged in that frame, and the thought of casting her aside bothered me. She must have been dear to someone once, long ago. And so I "adopted" her.
I have dozens of old family photographs, sentimentally priceless to me. I would never think of getting rid of them. The people in those pictures, and their life stories, are a part of my history. A tangible reminder that I am here now because of those who came before me. True, many of them are people I never knew, as much strangers to me as the girl in the picture. Still, for better or worse, they are my family.
So, who was she, this girl in the picture?
I'll never know.
Why did she end up in a dusty corner of a second hand shop?
That, I'll never understand.