Faith & Family - Innocent
On a shelf in our closet sits a paper Bath & Body Works bag brimming with pictures. Its blue and white checkered edges held together with small strips of Scotch tape, I’ve had this makeshift photo album for nearly fifteen years. What briefly contained a tube of lotion and sweet-smelling body spray following a trip to the mall now holds my most prized belongings.
Needing to locate a particular photo for one reason or another, I retrieve the bag and set it down on our bed, careful not to damage the paper any further. The contents are at least moderately organized, starting with the kids’ baby pictures at the top of the stack and more recent photos—like that family trip to Disney World in 2023 and a snapshot of my son in last year’s Halloween costume—situated at the bottom. Some four-by-sixes off to the side, still nestled inside one-hour photo envelopes from Walmart, remain to be cataloged. As usual, I promise myself I’ll get to it, probably about the same time I finally print the hundreds of images still stored on SD cards from my never-went-anywhere-without-a-digital-Kodak- camera days in my early twenties.
Drawing a palm-size handful out of the bag, I’m instantly transfixed by memories. (I swear, this is always the case.) I spot the photos my mother-in-law snapped on our wedding day. There are pictures from a miniature golf outing with a group from church and miscellaneous vacations, and, sandwiched between other photos from when Mike and I were dating, there’s a seemingly random picture of a single chocolate chip cookie he had personalized for me. (It said “Mike loves Erin” in red buttercream.)
But infinitely more than anything else, there are photos of our kids. In a ceaseless effort to hold onto their youth, it’s possible I have more pictures than necessary, yet still it doesn’t seem like enough, and, also, may I relive those beautifully hard days one more time?
