My mom. Probably around the late 1950s. Her bright smile. Holding the daily newspaper. This photo was taken in one of those photo booths – you stepped in, pulled the curtain closed, put in your 25 cents and there were three flashes. Or maybe five. Then some minutes later the black and white photos, in a long strip, smelling of some kind of finishing chemical, were spit out of a metal slot in the booth.
When I look at this photo I feel lonely. Not afraid, not sad, but alone.
I carried this photo with me all the time when I was a child. In my wallet. When I went to bed at night in my Grandmother’s big, cold house, or when I was sitting alone at my wooden desk at school at recess, I would pull it out and stare at it. Embrace it almost. To try to feel the warmth of my mother’s embrace. To feel her presence, try so hard not to feel alone.
My mother got very sick when I was a young child. It took them a long time to figure out what was wrong with her. During that time she was in and out of hospital. She was sure she was dying. The doctors thought she needed shock treatments because they couldn’t find anything physically wrong. Turned out she had Celiac’s disease, something only one clever doctor seemed to know about. Thankfully he finally saw my mother in one of her hospitalizations. But that is a different story.
I learned all of this later in life. At the time that Mom gave me this photo I only knew that my mom had to go to the hospital to rest sometimes. That she always came home. But that I missed her terribly when she was gone. That I had to stay at my Gramma’s big house. It was cold and dark, as I remember it. My Gramma fed me well, helped me get to school, asked me about my day. She wasn’t my Mom.
The photo is ragged. It has fold lines throughout. Creases on my mom’s face. For years it lived in the top drawer of my desk. Now it’s back in my wallet. It is wrapped in plastic so it won’t fall apart. I still embrace it often.
