“The only residents remaining in the small town of Miners Hill are spirits,” the museum volunteer remarked, noticing how the young woman was staring at the photo.
Delia continued staring at the picture in the glass case situated among some tools she assumed had something to do with silver mining. Somewhere in that black-and-white hillside was the house where her great grandparents once lived. Her father only had vague childhood memories of a narrow, steep street and a house that looked out over the roofs of other houses. Strange to think how her beginnings were rooted in such a remote place.
“So,” Delia ventured, “what’s left there? …I mean, that’s a lot of houses…they couldn’t all still be standing.”
The volunteer shrugged.
Delia looked again at the photo, still unable to get her head around the notion that one minute you’re here and the next you’re gone and everything that once was you disappears as if you never existed in the first place.