Of all the photos I have, this one is most precious to me. Unlike the other snapshots I have of my early childhood that capture the parts of my personal timeline I was still too young to remember, this one captures the moment the memories began.
I can still feel the warmth of those knit, red mittens as my father tugged them over my chubby toddler hands.
Like the photo, the memory is worn and grainy, and it plays itself slowly and in splices, like an old silent film. After helping me with my mittens, my dad helped another little girl with hers. But as he did, I noticed something was different about her. She didn't ask my dad to put them on, at least not with words. She simply motioned for his help. "She's deaf,"my father explained to me when I asked him why the little girl couldn't talk.
According to recent research, most toddlers are able to recall past events by age 17 months (I was 18 months when this photo was taken), especially if those events are special or distinctive. Why did my mind decided to latch on to this moment to propel itself into action? Was it the chance encounter with someone the same, yet different from myself? It's almost as if putting on the mittens sparked my memory, setting it into motion for the rest of my life.
The older I get, the more I appreciate photographs. There is a story in each. They are an unwritten, unspoken journal of sorts that require no words and no writing utensils. So I've decided to dub each Saturday "Snapshot Saturdays: A Wordless Journal." On these days, I'll set my pen down and pick up my camera instead. After all, I've been told a picture is worth a thousand words.
0 comments:
Post a Comment