Through the lens
My husband Ted asked once why I have so many photos of my dad and so few of my mom. Mom died in 2003, before every cell phone had a camera, more than 4 years before the first iPhone, before Facebook, before any of the technology we count on now to capture and share photos in a way that makes them accessible from almost anywhere. I have printed snapshots and 35mm slides with photos of my mom—but they aren’t easy to access, and they’re difficult to share.
But when I close my eyes, I see Mom. At Christmas, her short, frosted blonde hair curled under her red felt cowboy hat with a green felt Christmas tree affixed to the front, complete with sequins that made ornaments and gold bric-a-brac for tinsel. I don’t remember the kind of sweater or jacket she’d wear, but I can picture the way her black leggings tucked into her red cowboy boots, how she’d whoop Howdy! as we stepped into the German Bakery and smelled cinnamon and vanilla as we stood in line to pick up our order of Christmas cookies and stollen. I feel the anticipation of Christmas, the adrenaline of completing the last few errands and hoping we could get our order in time to make it to the grocery store before the panicked holiday crowd clogged the aisles.
I see her dressed for the last formal event she and my dad attended, about three months before she died. I helped her to style her dark blonde hair, short this time because it was still growing in after it had fallen out while she had chemo. She said her hair came back with the texture of an Airedale’s fur, and I blinked quickly to keep the tears from falling as I slid crystal-tipped bobby pins into her stiff, wiry hair, hoping to make the spikes in her hair lie flat so none of her friends would connect her party ‘do with her illness. After she was fully made-up and dressed in a black tank-topped sweater dress and a black leather jacket with black ostrich feathers around the neck and cuffs, she stood in front of a full-length mirror. Well, she sighed, not too bad for a dying woman. As I flailed for words, wanting to tell her that she wasn’t dying, aching for it to be true, my dad entered the room wearing his tux. Mom smiled and her eyes glistened as Dad paused, then whispered, Wow. Just… wow. I do have a photo taken at the party, but it can’t capture the emotion of that moment.
I’m a little girl again, and I can feel her hand on my shoulder as we stand at the base of the Cathedral Group of mountain peaks in Grand Teton National Park. Dad is taking our photo, and the early-morning sun is almost blinding as he works to capture the rosy first light on the Grand Teton behind us. Mom’s big leather pocketbook is at her moccasin-clad feet, and through a tight smile, she calls, Take the damned picture! He does, and then we trade: I pull out my Kodak Ektralite camera to snap a photo as my parents crouch among the sage and bright yellow flowers, capturing not the glorious view of the Tetons behind my parents, but the view I love most of all: the two of them leaning toward one another, balancing with Dad’s hand on the ground and Mom’s hand on his thigh, kissing. But the camera is out of film, so the only photo is the one in my memory
As much as I wish I had more (and more accessible) photos of Mom, I wonder whether I would remember those moments as clearly if I had taken a photo. Maybe our always-available cameras limit our ability to remember the context of the photo, like the tourist who snaps photos as Old Faithful erupts, zooming in on the geyser’s plume but missing his child’s look of wonder. Missing being present in the moment.
What matters most is the fullness of the moments with people we love. One of my favorite wedding photos shows my almost-husband tearing up as he watched me walk down the aisle. I love even better the memory of locking eyes with him, seeing his tears through my own, seeing his hands clench and unclench as he struggled to maintain control. No camera can capture all of that.
And so, on this 19th Mother’s Day without my mother, I’m grateful for the photos I do have of her, but I’m even more grateful for the memories that can take me back to a moment with her, to remember not just the sights but also the sounds and the scents that invite me to re-experience that moment. It’s as if, even for only a flash, she’s with me again. And for that, I’m grateful indeed.