picture book

I looked through a box of pictures last night. Most of them span from ‘94 to ’02. A five-year gap tells me that digital has definitely put a damper on my picture box. It’s great to email photos, but the old-fashioned kind feel more life-like. I was looking for one picture in particular, of a past love. It was a spontaneous shot that a friend took as he and I were sitting in the grass. She liked to take her camera with her wherever she went, and one day she gave us a few of her shots from that day in the park. Sometimes one photo can tell you someone’s entire story. I don’t know if the picture would tell him, the past love, the same story as it does me, or even whether or not it would be a special one, with special meaning to him. It is for me. I remembered it last night and began digging for it.

I don’t organize my photos, other than a few from college graduation or big trips. The rest join the heap. I go through them one-by-one when the mood strikes. Last night the ones of Jeff and Bekkah stood out. The best ones were from the early days when Bekkah used to wear a long pony tail, slicked back, and the ones from trips I used to take to visit them in New York. Pages filled with so much energy that the memory of how it was in those moments came right back, I remember.

I’m tempted further through my life, my friends, all those people who are somewhere else now. I ran into the ex in the photo this February. I hadn’t seen him in about 7 years. When he walked in for some reason he looked left and I looked right toward him. In that one look it came back, our moments together, or just him. Time travels around inside us like a Ferris wheel, making stops mid-air. I found the picture I was looking for at the bottom of the heap.