Point and shoot

She walks into his house. A house bursting with the truest love of a family. Pictures adorn every wall and surface. Mother and sons. Father and sons. Brothers. Cousins. Babies. One baby. Their pride and joy: Grandson, godson, nephew, son. He is cherished. She used to populate those same frames. After 7 years, documenting every occasion from milestones to pebbles, of course she'd make her presence known. Even after she was gone, a few were overlooked. So common place in their lives, having resided for so many years and settling into the homes of squared wood and glass, it was easy to pass over them like the salt shakers on the counter or the fireplace tool set giving the illusion of necessity next to the gas fireplace. They belonged. 

She knows, hopes perhaps is a better word, that someday their [hers and his] wedding picture will find rest next to those of the generations that came before, above the piano. Or, if she's lucky, an ordinary everyday photo will be worthy enough to join the ranks of those of boys playing in the living room, or showing off their muscles or swinging lazily on a summer day in the hot sun. You see, it's not the milestone memories that create the feeling of belonging. No, anyone could stand next to the stunning graduate and fill a space. A space that just before her was the dotted outline of a woman, just beckoning for a generic someone to fill her place. Rather it's the capture of a rare wink, or the way he collapses in a chair after a hard day at work that let you know that you are in fact, noticed. cherished.

It's too soon for that, she knows this. Although his father has already slipped and called her 'daughter' on more than one occasion, she doesn't expect to come in and replace the positions of she who came before her. She wonders though, on Monday mornings when she rolls her suitcase from her weekend stay out to the car, preparing for the commute back to work, would anyone even know that she existed in their lives? in his life? When she's there, it's known. She's loud. She forgets to hold the handles of the doors so that they close gently instead of slamming, she knocks over gates, she laughs loudly and holds nothing back. But what about when she leaves? Sure it's not his house, but he does have a room. Maybe a picture on his desk of the eyes that he loves so much? or one on his nightstand of the smile he's always begging to see? Surely there must be some small, wallet-sized something that would speak to her being long after she's gone? His office at work. Everyone takes a small token to remember their loved ones there. How else would you make it through those dreadful 40 hour weeks? Is there a black rimmed frame encasing a black and white picture of her caught off guard with her hair in her face, fighting the wind, laughing? No, she knows better.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what about the lack of one? For that she could find a million. Because, it's not that there are a lack of pictures at all, just a lack of her. "Let's make it a point to bring the camera out more," he says to her. "You have the good one," she always shoots back. "But it's so bulky and awkward," he'll say. "Well we both have our phones. Maybe we try to use them more often," she suggests, knowing that they won't. "Deal," he agrees. But they don't. Every now and then she will and they'll save one awkward close up of their faces. Blurry, definitely not frame worthy. And they certainly couldn't be troubled with carrying around the 'bulky' camera. Why even have it in the first place? Oh. To remember the first time in the snow, or blowing bubbles, or playing cars in the living room. Those everyday moments of someone a bit smaller than she is, are the ones being captured. Hundreds of nearly identical pictures, caught from barely leaving time for his finger to release the button before snapping the next unbelievably adorable shot. Not sunday wiffle ball games with her or Saturday afternoons out on the patio. No one cares to remember the bit of nothing that a few adults were doing.

She thought about putting one up for him. Reminding him that this is what you're supposed to do when you love someone. But he knows what to do. Boxes of memories from life prior to theirs sat on the floor in his room for weeks, months even. He knows.

In another life she would have discussed this with him. "You know what really gets me?" She'd say. "Is that my boyfriend refuses to make an effort to take pictures with me. Of me. Why is that do you think? Doesn't he want to look back and actually have something to remember this all by?" They were best friends for a long time, so they discussed matters such as these. He would have said something completely irrelevant to make her laugh and to take her mind off of it. "If I were your boyfriend," he'd say to himself "I'd never waste a moment NOT documenting our life together." And here they are, years later, he is her boyfriend, and yet it's not their life that he documents. She thinks on this, wipes away a tear and realizes that even still he'll think she's only talking about a stupid picture.