Lately, River has been grabbing my camera and snapping a picture or two of me. Okay, 35 burst photos to be exact. 35 photos of her mother, usually in the corner of the sofa. Usually, listening to music. Usually, watching her children dance. 35 photos of an ordinary afternoon with ordinary music as ordinary people. 35 photos slightly varying. 35 photos I didn’t have before. 35 at 28 at 4 something in the evening. 35 of one and some of two. 35 of being. 35 of living and mothering and thinking and planning in a single moment….
The photos she grabs of me are often silly and intimate in a way that mostly matters to me. I hardly share them because they often remind me of the ones in your grandmother’s photo album. You know, the really good ones. Of course, there’s no shortage of pictures of me or them, but the ones that are captured in-between of me are rare these days. The ones save for when they’re older and I’m old and “those were the days” when I watched them from the couch and I was good and tired, and then they were good tired.
