Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, all this picture taking. I’m surrounded by folks who spend small fortunes on film and dye cuts and acid free paper. We tell ourselves that it’s for our children, and our children’s children, and someday the generations will look back and remember us. They’ll know just what life was like, and that is sacred. And while all of this may be true, we deny the selfish underbelly its say.
The secret is, that it’s really for myself. It’s so I will remember. So I can use a little less faith, and by looking at a photo I’ll quell my fear that maybe I wasn’t there. Maybe I never was skinny. Maybe I never looked that good in a suit. Maybe she never did glance at me with love in her eyes. Let’s face it. The future generations don’t care all that much. Can you remember the last time you spend a tear stained afternoon going through your parent’s photo album?
I rest my case.
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