photos, crystals, ghosts

you read an author talk about the docility of the camera, and a photograph being a lie. you take it to the heart, even preach it to your other image maker friends.

then you visit your parents’ house and see that they turned the shelf which you emptied of your books into a shrine with photos of loved ones passed and some crystals.

you see a photo of your baby self with grandpa resting his head on your lap. a playful role reversal: the elder becoming the child, the child becoming the elder, an honour for both.

maybe the author is wrong and maybe you actually disagree with her. these photos of your uncles and grandparents aren’t lies. much like the crystals they are brilliant records of time, moments shared by kindred spirits blessed by love.

and then you mourn not only the ones who’ve passed but also versions of us who are no longer: the fading youth of your parents, the clown paint on your little face.