I just found some photos while cleaning out the house after the Eaton Fire and the hurricane winds and subsequent floods.

Sorting is a long process, seems never-ending, because each little remaining piece of my remaining life needs individual consideration and often provokes tears.

Some I set aside to decide later. Some are keepers. Some are throwaways.

I have stacks of photos of people I don’t know, never did, or don’t remember and never will. The unknown past remains unknown. If there’s nothing written on the back of the mystery photo, out it goes. Life is too short to try to live in the present and simultaneously try to live a concurrent life I never lived before at the time.  

I steel myself against loss, because so many of the photos may have been collected by Shirley and may still have her DNA and fingerprints. I don’t want to lose any more of her. With Shirley gone, there’s no one handy to explain the documentation of the void, though Kristina helps. And some photos are keepers and are treasured.

So, with unexpected joy, among the lot, I found more photos of me and MLK III. I had forgotten that there was a reception after the ceremony. Kristina had reminded me, and she was the one who took the photos. [See my earlier blog entry, “Martin Luther King was my friend,” posted 1/20/2025.]

We were all younger then, but we’re still here.

I post the photos now to share them with the world.