A Road Not Taken

When I first started working this little part-time job as a photo specialist, I never knew how unprecedented my access would be to peoples’ lives. Now I’m not talking about creepy-tracking-down-personal-information-stalker status here. I mean how a few photos or even moments in conversation can reveal so much.

• A teenager on their love-struck dates and dance nights.
• A twenty-something’s raunchy night-on-the-town.
• A family on their latest outing, hosting guests or on a vacation. 
• An older person reminiscing over grainy memories of yesterday.

There is seriously far too much information that I have seen in these glossy images. My eyes! Some borderline pornography is on here, not the good kind. Ugh. How quick are people to value their privacy and yet share their stories to the next semi-willing audience. Do we want to remember or be remembered? Perhaps some of both.

Most of the time, I would keep my life to myself, but I needed to share this one incident I had the other night:

A 40-50 year old lady came in at about an two hours before closing time, carrying no less than seven rolls of film in her hand. She approached my workstation tired, asking to process them by the end of the night. I gritted my teeth. More orders were flowing in and the backlog of 150 pictures needed to be done. I developed a habit of prioritizing certain orders based on immediacy, and I was to determine the importance by asking why a person needed it for. She replied that these rolls of film contained all the images of her son she had, and that he passed away recently. His funeral would be tomorrow, she mournfully noted. I really couldn’t say no to that.

For the rest of the night, I would look on this one small life. Some baby pictures all the way up to his teens when he perished. Is this really all she had in terms of his life? No more than 200 pictures and his life would be summed up like the passing mist. When she arrived five minutes before closing, the mother smiled widely when she picked up the photos. A meek thank you, and she was off. I wanted to find out more, but knew I couldn’t. I went on with my duties soon after.

An idea began to grow in my head. What will I be remembered for when I leave or go away? What will people think of me, if I am to be remembered at all? What will be my proof of existence? Will it be restricted to a few friends and family? Will I leave behind a legacy? Will anyone want to remember what I have done?

Curse you, death. You and your finality.