When I was a toddler, our moving van was stolen, and with it, most of the evidences of my babyhood. They found some of my parents’ faded wedding photos that hadn’t made it into the car with us and our more precious and immediately needed belongings. Otherwise, most of the photos we have from that time we've been given over the last 20 or so years thanks to friends and family.
I know snippets of stories from those yesteryears that my parents told me as I was growing up – my (nearly extinct) extroversion at the playground, the two or three times I almost drowned because I wasn’t ready to get out of the pool, my pudgy baby cheeks and rolls that have never truly left me – but I still wish I had those 4" x 6" kodak and film prints some desperate men casually abandoned in an alley beyond repair. I wish I still had those moments that mattered to just me, Mom and Dad, if no one else. Photos like bathtime and bubble-beards, Dad and I falling asleep on the couch together, Mom laughing at my squishy face because I disliked mashed peas or something, bundling up at the park together, wearing Mommy’s shoes and stepping on Daddy’s toes.
The few photos we have are precious, though I didn’t always go to look at them as a kid, as seeing the few of mine and all of my sibling’s photos only made me acutely aware of the evidence I didn’t have. The rarity of looking into my forgotten past only amplified in value to me when I lost my father to pancreatic cancer days after I turned 18.
This weekend, as we marked the sixth anniversary of his passing, I realized all of the photos of Dad and I that I had copies of had been recycled so often on social media that it was starting to seem like we had never photographed any of our adventures as a family but that handful of milestones. I was trying to remember what other photos I used to look at from the shelves in our living room. So I asked my sister to send me a few scans of photos of Dad. That’s when she told me she only knew where the salvaged baby photos were located in the house. “GREAT!” I thought excitedly, “SEND THEM!” I definitely couldn't remember what most of them looked like! And that’s when I started sobbing in my car in the parking lot in front of my office building.
The photos were like a love note from my Dad, specifically for me on this hardest of days. “Maybe we don't spend our summers cannon-balling at the pool now, but remember how we had a great time swimming back then... Maybe I don’t eat cake with you on your birthday anymore, but I still celebrate with you every year... Maybe we didn’t dance at your wedding, but I’ll dance with you now... Maybe we don’t carol or sing in choirs together like we used to, but I want you to have music in your life to give you joy...and really, Delaney, we both know I'm singing with you in the car anytime Journey is on.”
I don't remember any of these days pictured, no (except for one time Dad played Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star on the keyboard that might just be because we had a home video of it) but these photos made them real. They are snapshots I'll show my kids when they want to see how much they look like me at two years old. They're glimpses into who their grandpa was. They're proof that we were happy; sometimes that makes it worse, but in such a good, deep, healing way.
I'm sorry if this is sad for you. I'm sorry if you cry, as I have six or seven or... times since this weekend began. And I apologize if this seems like some kind of emotional soapbox about how photos are important. It’s not intended to be. I just miss my dad. But I missed my dad in a happier way when I saw these photos. I just wanted to appreciate them “out loud” for a change. I want to be thankful that somebody kept photos and sent them to my family when our world was turned over, after the move and after his passing. I want to thank those people and you for not only taking portraits like those I post here usually, but for capturing the little things, even if they’re blurry or out of focus, or with your phone camera, or cropped too close or far away, because they matter deeply. Love matters deeply. And as I always say here, choose your love. Choose to love. And love what follows: memories, relationships, and lasting joy.
