The following is my entry for the 2026 Freewrite 500.
The Third Stack by Alice Buell Lawrence
There were three stacks on our battered dining room table: the third stack had the most. We were deferring to each other, which was probably how we got here. Neither of us said anything about the photo on top of the stack. It was punching both of us.
Atop my pile was a photo I took from a kayak, a sunset on Lake Superior from a vacation we took the year after we were married. The sky was golden, the water an inky blue, the bow of my boat visible with a bright red water bottle, a blue anime bear face the design. That photo is still on my fridge.
Atop hers was a photo of a waterfall, one with her in the picture, one that I took. The mossy rock on either side of the ribbon of water was a brilliant green. It was somewhere in Oregon, the year after our kayaking trip.
The third stack had ones neither of said we wanted. Most were photos of us. That’s where we were. This was ten years ago. Photographs are the hauntings we choose, our totems of the past. I know that now.
The photo we were struggling with was one the kayak guide took of the two us, silhouetted against the sunset, holding hands. I held it up. Neither of us said anything. Maybe it was pride that kept us from claiming it. Pride or pain. It was a beautiful shot from an incredible trip. Our first time on an adventure, our first time getting lost and then finding ourselves our own way.
Further down the stack were other photos from the trip. From when we searched the shore for rocks. From when we were mobbed by hungry geese at a park. From when we found ourselves at a decrepit elementary school, the doors all open, and we decided to make use of the stage.
After the bliss, she began reciting sonnets, her English degree finding a home below a basketball hoop and above a wooden floor. We quickly devolved into improv, laughing ourselves silly before someone finally chased us away. We were still laughing when we found the main road again.
I counted the seconds; neither of us said anything. I sighed and reluctantly placed it on the third stack. We went through the rest of them, our individual piles growing slightly. I claimed a couple of our aurora photos; she took the ones from our ship-watching on the coast. We didn’t look at each other as we got up from the table and went our ways.
Later, once most of the lights were out and I was about to head to my makeshift bedroom, I went back to the trash and pulled out a few, including the picture the guide took. I uneasily keep that one in my office.
When the lid was closing, I saw that the stack had grown much thinner. We reclaimed what we could of our story—our ghosts—separately, in silence.
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