Weak and Powerless
It’s a week later, almost to the hour, and I’m only more confused. I’ve successfully sidestepped most of the endlessly pointless What ifing, though there will always be the penchant for retroactive hope.
I have, however, learned a little more about my little girl in the week since her death. I poured over all 171 pictures we managed to take in her three months, finding expressions I hadn’t noticed, angles and curves in her face that I hadn’t taken the time to discern. There are a couple with smiles, each as similar to the other as different; but most find her curious or upset or confused or asleep. Those smiles….
I had always rolled my eyes at that compulsion to take pictures, thinking that we’d all be better off if we simply lived with our memories rather than trying capture that which is beyond our means to capture. I stand corrected. Take as many pictures as you can, take them of those people or things you treasure when they’re in a state you wouldn’t treasure. Take them when the kids aren’t smiling, or dressed up. Take them when your parents are just watching the evening news. Take them when your house is a mess. Take them before you get to Yosemite, on the way, when you’re at a rest stop and there’s nothing worth taking a picture of.
Why? Because we’re all too stupid to know what’s worth taking a picture of until we don’t have the chance anymore.
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