Take a picture or it didn’t happen.
My dad always says this phrase to my brother and I whenever he wants us to take a cheesy sibling picture in front of a pretty view or national monument. He says it so often that it plays in my head on repeat whenever I take a picture. My camera is a house of memories — a snapshot of particular moments that make me feel good. As I carry my camera with me, I also carry the past I strive to remember.
Memories are not tangible. We can’t physically hold onto them, hoard them, or savor them. In a way, they’re not real. They’re figments and images in our minds. For all we know, we might’ve made them up and convinced ourselves that they happened. This is why my camera is so important to me: it makes my memories feel physically tangible and real.Â
In 2020, I asked my parents if they had an old digital camera I could use. They found a used, scratched Canon Powershot SD1100 with a fraying black lanyard tied to it. Suddenly, I was four years old again, screaming “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus into my play microphone stand while dressed in a princess gown, white polka-dot long sleeve shirt, and gray leggings. I was back in my pink childhood bedroom, performing for the camera with my dad filming and my mom singing along. It was a flash of a memory tucked away in the shadows of my mind. This camera had grown up with me, saving the memories I’d forgotten.
Now, I carry my camera with me everywhere. It weighs almost nothing, yet holds so much. My pictures document my life experiences and make me feel “infinite.” Taking a picture freezes time.
Although this is a blessing, it can also be a curse. Sometimes I wonder if by capturing the moment, I’m not living in the moment. Is taking out my camera an interruption? Carrying my camera might help these moments feel more permanent when I later scroll through them, but it can’t capture what I was feeling when I lived them. That, I’ll have to remember on my own.