Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Every Picture Tells a Story.

Tonight I met up with a friend of mine, Melanie, who has known my family since before I was born. She used to date my uncle in the eighties, back when I wore dorky nightgowns and elbowed my sister on purpose. We decided to meet up for mexican food, and practically the entire time we talked about my family, and about old stories of Florence. It was fine with me--I find these old stories fascinating.

She also brought a lot of pictures with her, mostly random events and holiday snapshots from back in those days. I pored over the pictures, trying to piece together the foggy memories in my head so that they make more sense. It reminded me of how important real photos are--not the digital kind that will be gone when I'm too old to keep track of a computer or social media--but the kind that get passed down from grandparent to grandchild, inside of shoeboxes and old albums.

My mom and me


My sister and me 
I have plenty of pictures of my family, but I think I'm going to have to print some of them. After all, when the time comes for me to tell stories, I'm going to need props just like Melanie had tonight.

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