A Bit Much {A Poem}

Youngest nephew's drawing of our new backyard: I am standing by the pool taking pictures. :)

My youngest nephew asked me once,

“Aunt Tina, why do you always take

So many pictures

All the time?”

Taken by surprise,

I answered,

“I don’t know.

It makes me happy,

I guess.

Why?

Does it bother you?”

Looking up from his toy trucks,

He nodded.

“It’s a bit much.”

Sometimes,

When editing a hundred—

Or two or five or ten—photos,

I remember that.

I have a better answer now.

“Photos preserve memories,

Those wispy things

More fragile than spiders’ webs,

As fragile as soap bubbles

You try to hold in your hand.

“Photos multiply happiness.

When happy things happen,

We feel happy.

When I look at pictures of happy things,

I feel happy again,

Like I did when the happy thing happened the first time.

“Photos retie knots of love.

Bodies are a little less fragile than memories,

But we fade like a flower in hot sun.

The older we get,

The more we say good-bye.

Pictures draw lost loved ones near again.

Bright and young and sheltered as he is,

He wouldn’t understand that now,

But years of life will take their toll.

The Lord will give,

And the Lord will take away.

Perhaps then he will see these words

Or those photos,

And he will remember,

And relive past happinesses,

And feel closer to his auntie

Who used to take so many pictures

All the time.

(She’s a bit much.)

Perhaps he will pick up a camera of his own,

And when the young ones ask,

He will know better than I did

Why he does it.