The traces left behind

Sometimes I think about the last traces that others leave behind when they leave our lives.

How long, for example, does a former lover take to fade completely, and the last flake of his skin is vacuumed away? How long before they are completely physically gone from our little corner of the world? Or are they ever? Do we carry traces of DNA from every person whose life was ever intertwined with our own, even as we move from home to home? Do we live with microscopic bits of them all? (This thought can be either comforting or disturbing, depending on who comes to mind…)

Flea was 19 years old when he died three years ago. I’ve moved twice since then, and gradually his presence has diminished over time, but I’m sure there’s still physical evidence that I used to have a cat.

And so it is with my dog. How long before I’ve swept up the last stray strand of Sam’s fur and wiped the last speck of his blood from the walls? How long before there’s no visible evidence that I loved a dog for all these years, and then how long after that before even the invisible evidence is gone?

At least I’ve got my memories and photographs. The Chinese have a saying that we all experience two deaths: The first death takes place when we stop breathing; the second death, the last time we are remembered.

But maybe the photographs will linger on beyond the limits of memory. Maybe 100 years from now, someone will see a photograph of Sam, tangible evidence that he lived, and wonder briefly about him.

This photograph is probably a hundred years old or more. We don’t know much about this dog, other than that he visited a photographer in Edinburgh and was probably good friends with that little girl. I wonder about him whenever I look at this photograph. I wonder what a dog’s life was like back in Victorian and Edwardian times. I think the fact that he was included in a photograph suggests that his life was unusually good for the times. I hope so. (I suppose it’s possible that he belonged to the photographer and was used as a prop for children’s portraits. Who knows?)

Cabinet cards were produced between c1866 and c1914, but were rare until the 1880s-90s. They measured 3.75″ by 5.5″ and were mounted on stiff cardboard backing. The back of the card usually had the photographer’s advertising imprint on it. Unlike daguerreotypes, cabinet cards were not necessarily unique: additional copies could be ordered.

Speaking of daguerreotypes, I’ve renamed that blog category to ‘Antique Photographs’, with the intention of expanding it and adding a daguerreotype, ambrotype, tintype, CDV or cabinet card each week. Warm thanks to Gilles for the loan of the scanner. (And heartfelt thanks to all of you who left comments, sent emails, or even just thought of Sam and me over the past few days – it helped.)