The picture in the middle, the one of the pink camellias, was taken in front of the cozy cottage where my Great Aunt Christine and Great Uncle Gene lived on Monroe Bay Avenue. It’s one of the few houses left in the small town where I grew up that is still recognizable. Aunt Christine was my grandfather’s sister, one of seven children in that family. She and Uncle Gene had no children of their own but I recall they treated me and my sisters with delight. When my mother passed away I somehow ended up with a family Bible that had been Aunt Christine’s. Inside, births and deaths of various family members were carefully recorded in her beautiful script handwriting. These memories color my days like creamer poured into a steaming mug of coffee. There is no judgment, just a sweet recalling.
Some years I think I will not take another spring picture. Not a magnolia blossom or a Lenten rose. I will not wrestle with the green-yellow of spring grass or inhale pollen that makes my asthma flare. I vow to look for different subjects. And then spring sneaks up on me. I feel like a kid again. Only this time, I am not afraid to be myself. I hold the camera knowing it connects me to the world. It feels as though I have spent most of my life looking for a sense of belonging. And now I have found it in the place least expected—inside myself.
More pictures on film . . . Olympus OM-1 and Kodak portra 400
