memento: an object or item that serves to remind one of a person, past event, etc.; keepsake; souvenir.
I'm so happy I live in a time where cameras are fairly standard; I mean, some people have a fancy camera that they use for documenting travels or family holidays, but the majority of cell phone users have another, more easy-to-use camera on their mobile phones. And the quality of the shots you take on your camera phone is improving with every new smartphone that comes out.
I document my outings with friends so that we can have a small glimpse of those happy moments preserved for time. I photograph my nieces and nephew so that they can remember how happy their childhood was. The reason I document those moments when I'm most happy, is so I can re-live those happy occasions time and again. Photographs are frozen memories; how I long to live in one, re-living the happiness I felt day in and out.
Thirteen years ago, I came to the realization that my parents have only a handful pictures of me as a baby. I was hurt, to be honest, because it seemed as though my parents couldn't care less about collecting memories of me. Now that I'm a little older (and not struggling with the self-esteem issues I had when I was 15), a fraction wiser, and have the insight of a woman who has friends with kids, I now realize that the lack of pictures there are of me as an infant is not a reflection of the little love my parents have for me, but of how busy they were at the time.
I now understand why my parents didn't document my infancy. It still hurts to know that for every 30 pictures there are of my oldest sister doing the samba at 18 months, one photo of me in my Christening outfit exists. It hurts, but I also understand how silly and fruitless it is to compare my lack of photos to the overabundance there is of my sister. After all, she was born a year after my parents were married, when they were living in Brazil as my father finished his masters degree. My parents were at their happiest then; they were starting their lives together. And no, life wasn't awful when I was born; and no, I was not an "accident" -- my parents had wanted to have a third kid for a while when they had me; but the circumstances in which I was born were vastly different to the circumstances in which my sister was born.
I can now appreciate that.
But lucky for me (and kids like me...), I had aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents who were all there to record those memories on film. My uncle Glauco is one who posts a tonne of photos of me from when I was a wee bairn living in the Land of the Eternal Spring. And now that I'm planning on returning to said land for some time to do some volunteer work, I'm going to see if I can smuggle a few mementos back home to Canada with me.
These are just three of the pictures my uncle has posted of me online.
As much as I loath to admit it, I have felt like an afterthought a handful of times in my life (again, self-esteem issues from when I was in my teens). But knowing that these pictures exist somehow makes me feel more like an actual thought.
I document my outings with friends so that we can have a small glimpse of those happy moments preserved for time. I photograph my nieces and nephew so that they can remember how happy their childhood was. The reason I document those moments when I'm most happy, is so I can re-live those happy occasions time and again. Photographs are frozen memories; how I long to live in one, re-living the happiness I felt day in and out.
Thirteen years ago, I came to the realization that my parents have only a handful pictures of me as a baby. I was hurt, to be honest, because it seemed as though my parents couldn't care less about collecting memories of me. Now that I'm a little older (and not struggling with the self-esteem issues I had when I was 15), a fraction wiser, and have the insight of a woman who has friends with kids, I now realize that the lack of pictures there are of me as an infant is not a reflection of the little love my parents have for me, but of how busy they were at the time.
I now understand why my parents didn't document my infancy. It still hurts to know that for every 30 pictures there are of my oldest sister doing the samba at 18 months, one photo of me in my Christening outfit exists. It hurts, but I also understand how silly and fruitless it is to compare my lack of photos to the overabundance there is of my sister. After all, she was born a year after my parents were married, when they were living in Brazil as my father finished his masters degree. My parents were at their happiest then; they were starting their lives together. And no, life wasn't awful when I was born; and no, I was not an "accident" -- my parents had wanted to have a third kid for a while when they had me; but the circumstances in which I was born were vastly different to the circumstances in which my sister was born.
I can now appreciate that.
But lucky for me (and kids like me...), I had aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents who were all there to record those memories on film. My uncle Glauco is one who posts a tonne of photos of me from when I was a wee bairn living in the Land of the Eternal Spring. And now that I'm planning on returning to said land for some time to do some volunteer work, I'm going to see if I can smuggle a few mementos back home to Canada with me.
These are just three of the pictures my uncle has posted of me online.
As much as I loath to admit it, I have felt like an afterthought a handful of times in my life (again, self-esteem issues from when I was in my teens). But knowing that these pictures exist somehow makes me feel more like an actual thought.
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