My mom.

Every day, as I work, I find my way into my photos that flood me with memories. I scroll fast through pictures of her smiling or making faces, cringing at me for taking another picture. I reflect on what she was thinking of herself in the selfies. I consider images of things that mattered to her and of people she loved.

Each time, I notice – deeply notice – something different, and I open that photo on my secondary screen while I work. After I settle on one picture, I click back to that tab from time to time, thinking, whispering things to myself or to her. Praying. Wondering if it’s true that she isn’t here any longer, but I check my notifications and see nothing for the last eight weeks. Her last text message and caller ID have fallen far below the recents screens.

She finally embraced her grey hair, and it was beautiful.

My focus fell upon her, and I looked beyond her beautiful hair, below her smile, settling my eyes on her collarbone. Her collarbone. Maybe it sounds strange to say that my mother’s collarbone pulled me into reverie, but it did, and I stayed there for a while last night before heading to bed. This morning, I awakened my computer to see her still there.

And the movie reel in my mind began.

She’s standing in front of the mirror flexing the muscles in her neck, drawing them taut from her collarbone through her neck and up to her chin. She holds the pose a minute. Repeats it. And again. Then resumes brushing her teeth, spitting into the sink and wiping it clean, always wiping it clean.

She’s sitting in a meeting room, clutching her hands, rings circling her cold fingers, bracelets dangling from her tiny wrists. She’s shivering. She’s always cold. She knows the room will be air-conditioned far beyond her comfort level, and yet she wears a halter-cut top. One that shows her collar bones and every goosebump that emerges from her dark skin.

Mom always said Lydan gave the best hugs.

She’s sitting with Lydan curled in against her. He’s rubbing his head on her shoulder. The light weight shirt has a wide lightly elasticized neckline, and it is shifted slightly so that her collarbone is visible. The fine link of her gold necklace puddles in the well above. She smiles quietly and rubs his back.

These images from the past flank my present moments.

In every conversation with clients, we triage*.

• From which storage devices or sites should we begin our collection of their digital images?
• Of the BINS full of photos, we discuss how many to digitize and store.

(Find the worksheets we use for triaging and assessing memories HERE. Read more about Concierge Services offered by Dani’s Pixel Place HERE.)

We also talk about the daily snapshots.

I have to admit, I am a hoarder of photos. My mantra is “The best pictures aren’t necessarily the best photographs.” I mean, who doesn’t love a beautifully posed photo with the best outfits and sets, with perfect hair and make-up? We ALL love the glam and love seeing ourselves through the lens of a gifted photographer.

Celebrating my wedding day with a MASSIVE bloody mary.

On vacation with her besties at Myrtle Beach

Scowling and refusing to do the PT for her broken leg.

With Dad, showing off Tater to family & friends for Scotty’s birthday remembrance.

But some of my favorite pictures are the blurry pixelated messes that would hit the delete bin in the photographer’s studio.

• I love the pixelated mess of my children playing in a puddle in my driveway. It’s blurred by the rain, by the poor quality of the camera I was using at that moment, by the excessive zoom I used to capture it. But I captured it, and I will treasure it always.
• I love the super close-up of the booboo on Lydan’s face when he made a poor decision regarding how to descend the stairs because I can hear him saying, upon
  

  Jul 2, Puddle Jumpers

  seeing the wound, “When Nonnie gets here, she won’t recognize me.” He wailed, and I tried not to chuckle.

• I love the grainy video in Chapin’s dimly lit bedroom when we pounced on him with silly string and balloons singing, “Happy Birthday.”
• I love the yellowing 1967 photo of my mom in her hospital bed, broken leg suspended above, scowling at the camera because she kept so few photos that weren’t “perfect.”

So, we triage. How many of the photos do you NEED to keep in permanent FOREVER Storage vs. how many photos share stories and details that the “good photographs” don’t hold.

For me, every picture is the opening credits of a movie reel.

I can manage to delete duplicates and rapid-fire shots of the same image. I really can. But there are so many photos that are poor quality images and yet top-shelf memories. I treasure them.

Today, I studied and ruminated over my mom’s collarbone. Tomorrow, it may be my daughter’s distorted face in a Gen-Z-style selfie, the way Gram knelt beside me on Christmas morning many years ago, or my husband’s big laugh. Maybe it will be lucid pixels that generate nostalgia, bringing tears to the edges of my eyes, or maybe it will be one of those fragments of an image or blurry pixelated messes that leads me to the stories of my heart.

I am a hoarder of pictures, of memories. There is no shame in that.

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