I find myself digging through pictures a lot.  Never sure of what I’m going to do with them and which ones I am going to put in frames.  My memories, my family, are left with just pictures.  Millions of pictures throughout my house.  Memories that I sometimes forget.  Like the trip to Walt Disney World my family and I took with I was 15.  I haven’t forgotten it.  However, I cannot piece together every single thing we did or seen.  Everything that was said, sometimes is a blur to me.  

Pictures, however, make me remember. I remember the small things.  Like the guy standing in front of me when I was trying to take a picture of a large parade they do every night before Tinker Bell swoops from Cinderella’s castle and flies around in circles before flying back into a window at the top.  Looking at those pictures I realize now that it’s the same guy with his family.  

After the parade, Tinker Bells flight are fireworks.  Fireworks, at which I’ve never seen anything more amazing since.  They lit up the night sky in multiple colors as the crowd around me found love.  Couples holding hands or stealing kisses.  Flashes of colors in everyone’e eyes.  My dad wrapping his arm around my mother as I stare in bewilderment at the sight before me.  


It’s such a small thing to remember.  The whole trip.  Without pictures, however, I can only remember the not-so-great parts.  The day we were walking and I didn’t realize there was different types of heat.  Florida, a heat all of it’s own, threw me out.  I waved my imaginary white flag above my head as I took a seat on a bench above a large beautiful tree over looking a water ride.  I sat, breathing, in the shade as people whipped past me on a water ride that left the ground and slide far into the sky.  I wanted to ride it.  Every part of my being wanted to stand in line, get into one of the logs, and ride through the water as it splashed the passerby’s that got a little too close.  I didn’t, though.  I was scared.  I was petrified of leaving the ground.  Being too far into the sky.  Instead, I sat on that bench and watched everybody walk around munching on snacks that are way over priced, drinking out of a bottle of water that is nearly fifteen dollars.

My attention was quickly drawn back to reality the moment an older gentleman squirted me with water in my face.  My eyes flashed around until I caught him, staring.  My mom smiled and thanked him, no one else thought to.  He smiled back.  “She looked a little white.  I was worried.  She needs water.”

I couldn’t get over just how generous this man was.  As I continued to sit there, breathing, letting the water run off my face and sizzle on the ground I felt something hit my head.  Not hard.  Just a small thump!  I felt my hair.  Pulling my hand back I realized there were birds in this large tree that I decided to sit under.  Birds don’t quite know how to find a restroom.

My mom laughed for hours.  She is probably still laughing as I write this.

Pictures show a persons life.  It shows what they did, who they were with, including the love and affection one person shares with another.  I remember a time where I took pictures upon pictures.  Snapping pictures so quickly people were hiding my camera.  I loved it.  Still do.  But the urge has faded a little since my brothers wedding.

I had one job that night.  One.  Pictures.  Take nice pictures as they walked down the aisle.  As they said “I do!”  As they finally had their first kiss as man & wife.  I couldn’t even do that.  I couldn’t bring myself to tell my brothers wife’s friends that I needed the lights on.  Because they didn’t.  The camera’s they purchased were better than mine.  Digital.  Compared to my 35 mm, that needed light besides the flash, I let them control them.  I let them decide for me that I didn’t know what I was talking about.  I took the pictures.  I took many pictures.  I didn’t receive one single good pictures.  They were either too dark, or too far away, or someone standing in my way.  

Haven’t taken pictures much since.

Early yesterday morning someone asked me to do their Christmas pictures of their family.  They’d pay me.  How can I turn down an offer like that.  There are only two things in life I’ve ever had a connection with.  One: Writing.  That will always be my baby that nurture.  Will, until the day they put me underground.  Two: Photography.  To show the world how I see things compared to them.  The beauty in things.  I can’t draw it by hand.  I use camera’s.  

I am going to take her pictures of her family.  I’m going to speak up and I will make sure they turn out decent.  I just wish that I would have spoke up at my brothers wedding.  Because then, they’d have pictures that were decent and not complete crap.

Pictures can mean a lot of things for a lot of people.  For me, it’s life.  It’s love.  It’s memories.  It’s family.  It’s everything wrapped up into one single multi colored piece of paper.  Something so small means so much to me.  I have cried over pictures ruining.  Water being sprayed over them, sticking together.  Then, by the time I realize it’s too late.  They are glued together.  As I listen to the pictures peel apart, that wretched sound of paper stripping the life from itself, I cry.  Tears streaking down my face as I grip the pictures tightly in my hands.  It’s a heart breaking moment.  Losing life.  Losing memories.  Losing love.  Losing family.  Especially when you’re family is gone.  

Moments in pictures.  A stolen kiss.  A stolen laugh.  Someone caught off guard as they shove the biggest corn dog in their mouth at a large fair.  Moments, small moments, caught by a single flash behind a camera.  

Take more pictures through your life.  Write on the back of them.  That way when you’re eighty and you open a box from you life.  You can remember exactly what is going on in that part of your world.  Something so small.  


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