I remember my first camera. I treated each shot like carving in a stone as I spun the aperture dial immediately, prepared to chisel again. I remember pausing just as quickly to check how many more moments I would be able to capture while counting down each meaningful press of the button. I recollect grasping tight to lean over an edge so that I could revisit the fear of it later. I held on tight to this tiny box that in turn held my memories.

I remember waiting anxiously to meet the memories again. There was a lull between Polaroid and one hour photo when patience truly was virtuous. I recall the picturesque façade of our local pharmacy as I peered past my dad’s headrest. I can see myself stumbling through the automatic doors, apprehensive to trust the stranger behind the towering counter. For a week every trill of our corded phone sent a feeling of thrill straight to my body’s core.

The images became a part of me; we had built a connection. Liking my photography meant liking myself. Finally I had my envelope full of 27 exposures! However, when I flipped through the four-by-six stills I couldn’t find the vitality I once felt. Where did it go? What was missing? I already knew the photos – we had met in a past life. Together we created a story, but this tale of wonder was suddenly isolated. I needed to share it.

What I received was not emblems of hearts, but actual love for the visuals and narratives they offered. I remember attaching myself to this love the way I had with my snapshots. I remember when liking and sharing created bonds and memories. I still remember my first camera.