No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness. -Aristotle

You should never doubt what nobody is sure of. -Willy Wonka

In the end, we all become stories. -Margaret Atwood

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning. -Virginia Woolf, "Mrs. Dalloway"

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Girl with Chicken

I'm reading Ransom Riggs "Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children" and on page 187 there is an old photo of a girl holding a chicken. The sad faced girl appears to be mid-teens, with long, dark, unbrushed hair, wearing a dark top covered by a dark, patched pinafore and what appears to be a dark wrap around her feet.

The photo is taken in a barren room, shades of dark and darker, with a bit of lightness here and there, like an afterthought. The picture is real, and I can't help but wonder who the girl is and why she is holding a chicken.

Is she moving into the home? Moving out of the home? Is it even her home? Is that her pet chicken? Is the chicken about to become Sunday dinner? Is she poor? A young mother? Alone? A slave? And who is the photographer?

For three days, since I have hit page 187, I have thought about this girl. I wonder what she was thinking when this photo was being taken. I wonder if she was happy because she had a chicken. I wonder if all she had was this chicken. Did she give it a name? Was it a prize winner? Was the purpose of the photo to show the girl or the chicken? Who wanted the picture taken? What did she do after? Where was she going? What was the rest of her life story, after the chicken?

So many things I wonder about this girl who lived not so long ago. Who ever she was, she lives on in this photo. Her and her chicken. Isn't that something?

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