It began the night before with a few posters tacked to streetlights and parking meters. Morning brought a few more. By evening, every available surface in my street would have a piece of paper with a photograph and the message:
Have you seen my . . .?
Can you help me find my . . .?
The photos were grainy reproductions made in copy shops around the city: photos of couples laughing, engagement parties, wedding pictures, parents hugging kids, brothers and sisters arm-in-arm. Photos of ordinary people celebrating the ordinary and extraordinary things of their lives; photos of people never coming home.
The first photos caught your eye and you read every word, tried to memorize every face, hoping you would see that person somewhere, anywhere. As the hours and days wore on, the words and faces blurred, softened by the filter of tears into a montage of the missing.
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