Picture Perfect

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words — but I can think of one word to sum up the photo I have of my third grade birthday party— sublime.  It’s a picture of three of my friends and me standing in front of a billboard for 101 Dalmatians showing countless dogs packed into a snowy black and white automobile in front of a snowy mansion. Caroline dressed in the typical early nineties dress, with the very nineties hair cut, holds up two peace signs crossed in front of her face; Ashley, standing feet together, one shoe lace untied, her chin down, has a devious grin on her face; Taylor stands her typical way, head up high with a dignified grin; and then me, of course, standing in front of all of them with my arm out, those awful bangs, and the hugest grin the world. The walls in my room are covered with pictures like this one,  worth so many words, so many feelings, so many memories. Each one captures a different experience with different people. 1

First are the pictures you love and will keep forever; the ones you took and immediately gasped when you took them out of their little envelope. You look at the moment, and you look at the smiles and remember the great times. Like the ones that you take on vacation with dozens of your friends and you look back and laugh at your really bad tan lines, goofy hair and clothes. What was I thinking, you might think to yourself, wearing those colors together, and my hair that poofy, but then immediately frame it, and smile nastalgiclly at the memories it provokes; one of the many reasons you put up such a crazy picture in the first place. The ones of childhood friends, family that you no longer see every day, and lost loves, all of which you never want to forget. It’s not just the light reflecting off the paper, showing you a picture that makes you emotional, it’s the story behind the photo that really matters to you. The story that you never want to forget. Like a book open to read at a glance. 2

Then after all of those great pictures, there are always the pictures that start off great that you grow to hate. Like the one of the best friend you grew apart from, or the perfect picture of you and your now ex-boyfriend; these end up at the bottom of a shoe box, along with your seventh grade diary. Hiding under the picture I have of my friends and me in Mexico, is the picture I took long ago of a guy I was head over heels for. But time changes things, and picture that I once cherished migrated from my mirror to the wall, to hiding from my boyfriend behind another photo— that photo along with the picture of my seventh grade crush. I remember I had put it in my photo book and next to his picture I put in a little candy heart he had given me on Valentine’s Day. Well, to say the least that little candy heart got eaten by a big brown disgusting roach, and with a sad sort of nostalgia, I threw the contaminated photograph away. Then of course there are the pictures of my friend Ashley, who I mentioned previously. Ashley and I had been best friends from the second grade up until the eighth. We slowly grew apart. Then her mother became raving mad at me one day for “going behind her back” and calling my mom to take Ashley and me to the mall. We never saw each other again. I still have pictures of Ashley sprinkled about my room, and every time my eye falls upon one, it strikes a note of sadness in my memory; the memory of good times gone stale; the memory of a friendship never meant to last. I think everyone has a good friend that they lost at one point or another. 3

The final type of picture I have on my list is the horrible picture you always hated, hate, and will hate for all eternity. Whether it be the picture of you with your eyes closed or a huge zit, the picture of a person who you like least in the world, or just a bad memory, these are the pictures that were never meant to get developed. I have many of those I find when I’m going through the roll at the Eckerd’s or Walgreen’s giving back the untouchables, the ones that can be used as blackmail, and the ones of bad hair days. Just the other day I got a roll developed, and I had to give back around ten pictures because of the bad acne I was having that day, along with my turkey-like double chin that kept on magically appearing. Those pictures are not a pretty sight, but occasionally they do get kept, whether by parents or friends. I have to confiscate and destroy them immediately. But those aren’t the only ones that have to be destroyed. No, they definitely are not. There are the pictures that were taken at the ninth grade formal, my first formal ever that ended up being a disaster due to my crappy date and my very bad decision on dress and hair. I remember I came across those about six months ago. Upset about something else to start off with, I found those pictures and they sent me over the edge. I tore them up, making a flurry of confetti. Never again will I now have a reminder of that horrible night.  Those memories have been shredded to a pulp (which makes me now wonder why I am again recording the memory on some sort of paper, since I have been trying to block that event from my mind). 4

Pictures are finicky. Some you love and want to look at nonstop, some you hate and want to destroy, and some you think you hate but save them anyways for a reason you can’t quite put your finger on. Either way, pictures aren’t just pieces of paper, they are memories, good times, and bad. They are little pieces of your life, that if you put all together form some sort of timeline, a record of your personality. They litter the tables and the walls in unpolished silver frames, and inside plasic covered book, smiles and frowns frozen in time, collecting dust. Then one day you polish the silver and brush off the dust, and laugh and cry at the memories; the good and the bad; the forgotten that was remembered. 5