I used to love having my pictures taken. My brother used to take hundreds of pictures of me when he was still alive. Yep, probably being the youngest, with 14 years separating me from my sister, my brother adored me. He took pictures of me taken from every corner of our house. He took pictures of me during all my humiliating piano recitals. He took pictures of me during my graduation, my first holy communion, whenever I win first place in singing competitions. He was always there to capture every moment of my young life. And though he was rarely in any of those pictures, he made sure I remember that he loved me. For smiling back at me in all those pictures where I used to smile from my soul . . . was my brother.
When he left, nobody ever suspected I'd be affected by his loss. My father surely was. So was my sister. My mother tried to be strong for us, but how can she have fooled me when she cried silently every night embracing her aching legs while I watched on helplessly trying to massage the pain out of her old thin legs.
After that, there was just no reason to smile anymore. No one ever smiled back from his camera. There was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence.
I hated myself. I hated how I looked like. I hated seeing the sadness in my face. I hated it when people discover that I was not as happy as I want them to believe. I didn't want to remember that episode in our lives. I didn't want to look back and remember the grief. I wanted to forget, to burn a big gaping hole in my memory.
But life will not be life if it were not so cruel. One never forgets. Those memories, it becomes who you are. You cannot escape from the past. You cannot burn the memories as effectively as you can burn old photographs. The memories stay, and the feeling lingers.
As I look now at the pictures my husband takes of me . . . I come to a startling realization. I am not that same sad girl anymore. There is happiness in those eyes. Depth as if thine eyes have seen immense amount of grief . . . but grieves no more. There is so much reason to smile about now. Someone I love has again taken ahold of that camera and dares me to remember. There is now a reason to remember.
How can I not smile from my soul when someone smiles back at you with so much love?
When he left, nobody ever suspected I'd be affected by his loss. My father surely was. So was my sister. My mother tried to be strong for us, but how can she have fooled me when she cried silently every night embracing her aching legs while I watched on helplessly trying to massage the pain out of her old thin legs.
After that, there was just no reason to smile anymore. No one ever smiled back from his camera. There was nothing. Nothing but darkness and silence.
I hated myself. I hated how I looked like. I hated seeing the sadness in my face. I hated it when people discover that I was not as happy as I want them to believe. I didn't want to remember that episode in our lives. I didn't want to look back and remember the grief. I wanted to forget, to burn a big gaping hole in my memory.
But life will not be life if it were not so cruel. One never forgets. Those memories, it becomes who you are. You cannot escape from the past. You cannot burn the memories as effectively as you can burn old photographs. The memories stay, and the feeling lingers.
As I look now at the pictures my husband takes of me . . . I come to a startling realization. I am not that same sad girl anymore. There is happiness in those eyes. Depth as if thine eyes have seen immense amount of grief . . . but grieves no more. There is so much reason to smile about now. Someone I love has again taken ahold of that camera and dares me to remember. There is now a reason to remember.
How can I not smile from my soul when someone smiles back at you with so much love?
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