The Dust On Our Photo Albums

When you have to pick a picture of someone for their funeral, one that’s printed on the invitations and displayed at the front for all to see—it should represent their brightness. Their ability to light up a dark room with just their smile—embodying their happy character. But Olivia wasn’t that person. She was quiet and cold, a bit awkward, and almost timid. If you didn’t see her in the room it felt as if she wasn’t there at all. She hated social gatherings and even more, she hated having her picture taken. 

On the lowest shelf in our living room, Olivia kept our photo albums. I bring a few over to the couch and place them in front of me. The dust collected on the covers sticks to my hands and floats through the air. It hasn’t even been a few months since her death, I didn’t know dust could pile up so quickly. 

I sigh, bracing myself to look through our pictures, which were all taken on Olivia's old, noisy, nearly broken Canon camera. I laugh to myself, remembering the clatter and thunk of the shutter and the late nights she’d spend tinkering with it, determined to give it another year of life. 

I open the front cover of one, the spine cracking with the motion. The first photo: me against a backdrop of the cascading ocean. I slide it out of its sleeve. Back then, before I knew how to tame my hair, it fell like unruly loose coils down to my shoulders. In the photo, as I awkwardly stand, pointing at something by my feet, the wind blows my hair to the side. The picture is a bit blurry, with flecks of mist covering the lens. I try to remember what I was trying to show Olivia, but the memory feels out of my reach. 

Lately, it's felt as if everything about Olivia is out of my arms length. I can’t remember the smell of her shampoo in the morning. Or how many freckles she has on the nape of her neck. And I can’t remember the last time we kissed. Sometimes I want to just crack open my skull, pull out my mind, and look through the folds of my brain. Dig for every memory that’s slipped away from me. 

I trace the edge of the photo, feeling guilty I’ve forgotten so much. I close my eyes and hold the picture to my forehead trying to summon back the day in the photo. 

The smell of cold air, filled with an odd saltiness suddenly invades my lungs. I feel a few soft, dot-like flecks hit my face, it tickles. As I open my eyes I’m no longer on the couch. A crab walks past my feet, my hand is already pointing to it. I hear the ocean crashing against the coast behind me and I see the shadows of seagulls flying above. 

“Hold still, Miller,” my heart sinks at the voice as it cuts through the wind. I freeze, unsure of what to do first. The strong wind whips my hair across my vision, as I look up through the strands, I see her. I knew, I could recognize her by the sound of her blinks alone, that it was Olivia. She holds her camera to her eyes, before I can speak, breathe, move an inch, she presses the shutter. I hear a loud click and see a flash go off, and suddenly I’m back on the couch with the picture between my fingers. 

My breath hitches. I press a hand to my temple, trying to wipe off the lingering sensation of the salty air and cold wind. I set the picture down, turn the page, and reach for another.

This one, taken during a New Years party, moments before the clock struck 12:00, I recognize myself and Olivia's younger brother framed in the center. His arm is around me, the other holding a sparkler as light dances and flickers at the end of it. I don’t remember this moment, Olivia must have taken this without me noticing. 

I press the picture to my forehead and close my eyes. 

The sound of bustling cheery voices surrounds me. There are distant booms of fireworks going off outside. There's a faint smell of smoke and alcohol. 

I open my eyes.

I’m back at the party, back in the moment from the photo. 

Olivia’s brother tugs at my neck, making me stumble forward. I swivel my head in every direction, spinning my body around, my eyes bounce everywhere until I finally spot her. 

Her camera is in her hands. She stands amongst the crowd and yet she still looks alone. She’s existing in the quiet margins, just as she’s always done, observing the vibrant buzz surrounding her. The familiar scene of her fiddling with her camera, the strap hanging around her neck, her brows furrowed like she’s trying to hurry before the moment ends; I never thought I would see her holding that camera again. 

She has bits of confetti stuck in her hair and streamers draped across her shoulders. She lifts her head and our eyes meet. I want to call out to her but as I open my mouth, she raises the camera to her face. I hear the thunk and clatter of the shutter and a flash goes off, and I instinctively close my eyes. When I open them I’m back on the couch, the photo trembling in my hands. 

I exhale, the shakiness of my breath moves my entire body. I quickly go to grab another photo. Flipping through the pages until I manage to find another one. 

This photo, again of me, on our bed. I remember this day. We had fought the night before, I can’t even recall what about. We went to bed angry and didn’t speak when we woke up. But then, when we did our laundry together, she started humming my favorite song. She took this picture of me, laying in our bed, pretending to sleep because I was still angry with her. The morning sun is shining through the gaps of our curtain creating a stripe of light across my bare back. 

I hold the photo close to me and close my eyes. 

I can smell the lingering scent of Olivia's shampoo on the sheets. I can hear the chirps of the birds and the rustling leaves outside our window. My back is warm and I can hear Olivia’s breath behind me. I turned to see her sitting just by the window, the sun glistens around her, outlining her silhouette in a soft glow. 

“No, go back to sleep. I was about to take a picture of you, Miller,” she whispers. 

“Olivia,” my voice comes out shaky and faint. “Olivia.” She’s wearing my shirt as pajamas and her hair in braids. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

I stare at her, feeling like the hole in my chest gets bigger by the second. My throat pinches. “Because,” I managed to get out. Other words don’t—can’t seem to surface. 

“Go back to sleep,” she says. 

I exhale, burying my face into the pillow. “I wasn’t asleep,” I muffle into the fabric, embarrassed.

“I know, you weren’t. I want to remember you like this.”

“But we fought.”

“We did.”

“Olivia,” I whisper again. 

She raises the camera to her face and I get up to grab her hand. Her skin feels cold. Her skin feels real. She lifts her finger to press the shutter, “wait!” I blurt—

The shutter snaps. A flash. 

I’m back on the couch. 

She always sounded so gentle. She knew how to make crumble, even just by the sound of her voice. I grasp the photo so tightly the edges crinkle. I ball my hand up, trying to hold on to her presence as much as I can—-but it’s already fading. 

I don’t care to steady my breathing or stop myself from shaking, I hold the photo back to my forehead and close my eyes again, trying to bring it back, to bring her back. 

But nothing happens.

I can’t feel the sunlight, hear the birds, or the thrum of her voice. Just the loud thump of my own heart. 

My hands fumble through the album, searching for another photo. I pull a different album towards me, brushing off the dust with my sleeve. I flip through the pages, hoping to find a glimpse of my old life—of our old life. 

I grab a picture of my hands holding the steering wheel of Olivia’s old car. The glossy finish reflects the dim light from the lamp beside me. Olivia's knees are barely visible in the corner, the only proof she was there at all. The windows are rolled down with the world flashing in blurs. We were driving down a road I can’t remember the name of. 

I press the picture to my forehead, tracing the edge with my thumb. 

I can feel the wind zipping past my face and the hot leather seat underneath my legs. The smell of pollen thick with the scent of summer fills the car through the open windows. 

When I open my eyes, I’m driving Olivia’s old car, the one with paint chipping down the middle of the hood and clunked whenever you turned it.

The road is empty, with fields of farms on both sides of us and distant jagged-edged mountains patchy with snow making it look like ants crawling across a white tablecloth. The plains are full and heavy with green. 

I glance at Olivia adjusting the settings on her camera. For a moment, her hair blows across her face, revealing the curve of her ears and the side of her neck . I can see three small dots trailing down to her collar bone. Her shoulders are sunburned and her skin is flushed from the wind rushing past her face. I want to stay right here, live in between the seconds of this moment.

I can hear the whirr of the camera lens, focusing. 

“Don’t take the picture,” I beg, breaking the silence. She lowers the camera from her face and studies me. She doesn’t answer right away. 

I can already feel this moment slipping through the cracks of my memory. I want to grasp this moment by the throat and choke and squeeze and suck dry every second I have forgotten. 

I always had this game whenever me and her went on long road trips. I’d stay quiet the entire drive, just to see if she would talk first. But she never did. She always stayed silent. “I want to hear your voice,” I choke out. Something squeezes my chest, making all my breath forcibly leave my lungs and I’m left feeling like I’m stuck underwater. “Don’t take the picture.” 

“But I want to remember this,” she says. I try to press this moment between the folds of my mind, like a dried flower. I want to remember the pitch of her voice and the soft breathiness of her words. But just as I think of it—

The shutter clicks. 

The flash goes off. 

I gasp, my eyes flying open. My nails dig into the edges of the photo. Everything is gone. Olivia’s old car. The feel of the steering wheel under my hands. The smell of the wind.

I clutch the photo, crumpling it in my grip, willing—begging myself back. 

I flip another page. And another. Searching. Again and again. I don’t—-can’t think. The plastic sleeves rip under my grip, photo’s blur—-none of them the right one. 

Just another moment. One more memory. 

My hands land on something—slightly torn and shoved recklessly into the sleeve. I yank it free without looking, without thinking, and press it hard against my face, closing my eyes so tight it hurts. 

Please. 

Just one more. 

It suddenly smells like tea and cinnamon. The bump of someone's shoulder against mine shocks my eyes open. I know this place. It’s Olivia’s parents house. It’s crowded and messy with scattered cups, plates, and scraps of wrapping paper. There’s distant laughs of children and the chatter of Olivia’s family. It’s Christmas. It’s the week before Olivia dies. 

I spin around, disoriented and struck with heartache. I’m breathless, dizzy, the world tilts and then—-there. 

She sits a few feet away, her legs crossed and head resting on her hands. Her camera is in front of her on the table. She spots me, smiles, and reaches for it. I rush to her, my hands shaking as I grab the camera from her hands and tug it away from her. 

“What?” She questions me, tilting her head, studying me with concern. 

“I can’t–” The words stumble in my throat. “I don’t want you to take any pictures!” 

She shakes her head, my heart lurches, she stays silent. I crumble under the weight of the future I already have knowledge of. I fall into her lap. My head presses against her chest, my hands still jailing her camera in my grip. 

“I don’t want this moment to end,” I whisper into her sweater. 

“Miller,” she lifts my head with both her hands, holding me like holy. “The moment will last forever. The pictures I take of you, of things in our little world—it’ll all last forever.” She runs a thumb across my cheek. I rest there for a moment, remembering the curves and grooves of her palm. “The dust on all our photo albums will be proof of that," she whispers into my skin. 

I don’t speak. I can’t. Something tight and bound up inside me unravels. I stand up and step away from her. My vision becomes blurry as tears brim around my eyes. “I want to make this last forever,” I choke out. “I don’t want to keep forgetting.”

She stands up from the couch and takes my wrist. She rests her hands atop her camera in my grip. “Then take pictures,” she says. She softly smiles, the scattered lights of the christmas tree behind us reflecting in her eyes. I wait for her to continue talking but she closes her mouth like she has nothing else to say. She presses her forehead to mine and lays a whisper of a kiss on my lips, quick and brief, as if she knew we’d have the rest of our lives for more. She smells like my laundry detergent and her lips taste like the mint chapstick she’s wearing. 

She steps away and into the kitchen, where her family is setting the table for dinner. With her hands behind her back, watching her loved ones bicker over spoons and napkins. This is how Olivia loved to live. Unseen and quiet. Always preferring to be the one behind the lens. The one studying and observing. 

I watch her, feeling my heart sink at my last sight of her. 

This moment, I want to make it last forever. I want to hold this image of her between my fingers, place it in a photo album, and watch dust collect on it. I look at her camera in my hands and run my thumb across the shutter button. I raise it and watch her through the viewfinder. She looks warm. She looks happy. She looks beautiful. She looks like herself. 

My finger presses the shutter.

I hear a click and see a flash go off. 

When I open my eyes, I have her picture in my hand. In it she’s giggling to herself about something, smiling faintly. The light from the overhang lamp is dim and yellow, making her look soft and blurred. Her eyes are full of life, like she’s holding an entire world within them as she listens and watches the buzz of her family. 

A weight so heavy pushes on me firmly, rips me open fiercely, makes me sink down completely. I touch my lips, trying to feel her breath against them just one last time, but the feeling is already gone. 

There’s dust all over the coffee table, covering my lap, and coating my hands. I glance at the open photo albums scattered in front of me—-each full of pictures Olivia took. Weeds growing up the side of our house, a bird flying into an open window, a few ants crawling across the concrete, paw prints in a puddle of mud, our dishes from breakfast lying in the sink.

Olivia didn’t light up rooms, she captured them. She could catch a flicker of a moment and make it last a lifetime. She took photos of things she loved as evidence of her own existence—-as proof that fleeting memories are tangible. 

Still holding the picture of Olivia in my hands, I realize that she was the last photo taken on her camera. 

This is the photo I’ll use for her funeral.

The photo I’ll use to remember her. 

The photo I’ll watch dust collect on for the rest of my life. 

I close each album and carry them back to the shelf. I know, as time settles over it all, these moments will last forever.