Pictures

I love family photos.  I didn't really grow up with them, but I have embraced them as an adult.  We've got an ancestry wall in our hallway that stares back at us from the late 1800s. 

My brother has a huge collection of photos as well – his collection highlights our lifetime and our experiences as opposed to the past.   Whenever I am at his home, as I was this weekend, I spend time re-living the moments that are immortalized on his wall.

Thankfully, Molly continues to be part of that wall.  There she is at 8 playing in the leaves.  And remember the day that she and my niece made me a birthday cake using Splenda?  That photo is on the wall too.  So is the photo of Molly singing and dancing on Christmas Eve wondering what “figgy pudding” could possibly be.  The photos, ever so momentarily, hold time hostage.

Of course, Frances and I also have Molly’s picture up all over the place in our home.  There are photos of her on the wall, in the cabinets, on the refrigerator. 

Seeing photos of Molly is not difficult because I miss her, it is jarring because the photos seem to breathe.  Looking at photos of Molly is entirely different than looking at photos of relatives.

A photo of Molly puts me back in some of the best moments of my life.  I can sense her emotions – which were huge – and her yearning – which may have been the defining quality of her life.  Sometimes the photos bring tears, but more often they put me in touch with who she is and who I am because I knew her. 

We never took photos of Molly down after she died.  I didn’t want to look at them right away – and I still don’t want to face the pain that is sure to come from watching videos of her – but today I treasure those photos.

And I am so grateful that photos of Molly are on walls and shelves and dressers of so many that knew her.  Thanks for holding her close for me.