I’ve gotten into the habit of looking at family photos with a (love drenched) forensic lens. Trying to remember the moment, the meaning of the moment, bits around the moment… the colour, detail, design and detritus. The grubby feet.
Those grubby little feet.
“Plain tops, different coloured plain tops if possible. That’s all,” said the photographer cheerfully in advance of Rich’s surprise 40th birthday photoshoot. We sorted this instruction with plotting and excitement. Magic captured in the glow of the photo. I missed the finer detail at the time and for years. The earthy, organic, dirty detail.
Give me those grubby little feet to hold for just one moment more… please.
I love photos. I’ve always loved photos. Now I examine peeps, objects and stuff in and around photos. Peering beyond, at the outer edges of the image to try to see more.
When someone dies unexpectedly (maybe any time someone dies) you’re left trying to make sense of, and hold on to, stuff desperately. Precariously. Trying to keep the person, not alive because you know they’re not, but real and crystal clear.
This week Rich and I have been home alone. Unusual silence. Quiet silence. He found a (rare) photo of me with Tom as a baby. On a family day out. London Zoo yonks ago.
The memories. The wonder. The logistics. The weather. Stand out moments. Remembering getting home after. Tired, grouchy, overwhelmed kids. Shortcuts and grubby feet.
“Blimey,” I said, looking at the photo. “I can actually remember eating those sarnies…” [Plain. Cheese. No frills. Sliced (by us) cheddar].]
I’d forgotten about the top I was wearing.
“I always liked that top”, said Rich.
“Where did it go?” I wondered.