I’m thankful that I’m slowly learning photography because along the way is a precious trail of pictures of my little girls for them to look at when they get older. I’ve always loved photography, it must be in the genes: when I was a little girl, my dad would run around Detroit with me in tow, taking pictures of people out and about (even in the iffy parts of the city). He loved capturing people in that one moment in time, a singular moment that spoke volumes, told stories in an image.
Growing up deaf in a hearing household, I didn’t have access to a lot of my family’s stories, so many of them went over my head (my family never learned ASL). I’ve managed to piecemeal some of them but am thankful for the photos I’ve had access to, to help me fill in the blanks, to tell the stories of my family. It broke my heart when I found out, while looking around at my dad’s house after his funeral, that a lot of my childhood pictures were tossed out (by who I suspect, was a vindictive second wife – another tale for another time).
I’m so glad my girls will have pictures like these, even the mundane, everyday kinds, to look back on, to share with their family and loved ones long after I’m gone.