A Word is Worth a Thousand Pictures

I set the camera on the counter. The man behind it looked at me. He was young and attractive-average height, medium build. Two grey eyes stuck out at me from behind his long bangs.

This place had been difficult to find. With phones and social media, there aren’t many photo print stores left out there.

There aren’t many cameras like this, either. It had been my mother’s, one she’d used quite often back in the early 80s. I didn’t know all the photos she'd had on there, but there were surely some of my mother, and maybe even me when I was young.

I pushed the thing toward the man. “I just need them developed,” I explained, trying to avoid his pressing gaze. His eyes seemed to stare right through you like he knew something about you that even you didn’t.

“What kind of film?” he asked, taking up the old thing carefully. I reassured myself that he knew what he was doing. I’d heard very good things about this studio, as well as a few more uncanny things. However, I wasn’t the sort to believe in superstitions or rumors.

What really struck me as odd was the one behind the counter. He couldn’t have been any older than 21 or 22, right out of university. Most of the people I knew who were into the classics of photography-the long developments, the film, the darkrooms-were older than me. What was this kid doing running a shop by himself?

“Uh…” I was embarrassed by my lack of knowledge all of a sudden. Mom would’ve known. “I’m not sure. I’m sorry.”

The man tapped his chin a couple times. “Looks like a basic 35mm. Alright. We’ll have these ready in about a week.”

I rambled off my contact information, and he gave me a price. I gave him a nod and left the store.

About 8 days later I got called back in. There was a different person behind the counter today, about the same age as the other boy. 

I told him my name, and his eyes widened in shock like I was a long-lost friend and he’d just realized who I was.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He shook his head. “N-no, sorry…” Then he went to the back and returned with a small manilla envelope.

The way he held it was like the way you hold a beloved childhood toy. I met his eyes. They studied me, but unlike the other boy, his look wasn’t that of inquiry, but of empathy. As if he knew. But that was impossible. Unless the rumors about this place were true...but even then, I hadn’t asked them to-

“Oh, right. I have to pay,” I joked, finding my words again. He smiled gently at me, and a peaceful tranquility filled my chest.

He looked a little sad as he handed me the envelope. I paid and moved for the door, but paused as the man behind the counter spoke.

“I hope you enjoy your pictures,” he said. “Thanks for the business.”

I nodded but said nothing. The door jingled on my way out.

My apartment was quiet and bright that afternoon. A calming light flickered in from the numerous windows, and a breeze filtered in from the one left open. It was a nice place to live, if a bit lonely. I inhaled the fresh air and set the pictures on the kitchen table.

For a while, I didn’t look at them. I sat in the living room, TV on, although I wasn’t watching. Perhaps I was preparing myself for what I might see. It had been a long time since that camera had been used, and I had no clue what might be on there.

Finally, I gathered up all the courage I could. I found the remote and switched off the news, then made my way into the kitchen, where I collapsed into one of my simple wooden chairs.

I reached for the envelope and pulled it open.

There were a lot of pictures there, more than I remembered there being. I thumbed through the stack for a good twenty minutes, carefully savouring each one.

The first few were of my dad, his smile small and gentle. He never showed any teeth, but his joy never looked forced. A few of the skyline of the city we used to live in. A few of our apartments. Then there were a couple of shaky ones, probably taken by dad. It was mom, her belly sticking out prominently. Her hair was a mess, and there were some dark lines under her eyes, but she was smiling. Unlike dad, she smiled as wide as possible, her pretty teeth out to the world. As long as I’d known her, she’d always tried to be a joyful person, no matter what troubles she had. She was like a sun to me, always full of warmth and life.

I continued through them, nostalgia wrapping around me like a blanket. Me as a baby, a toddler, a child.

The last picture was one of my mother in a hospital bed. Next to her was a child, hair unbrushed, smile full of holes. It was me, only eight years old at the time. Something was sad about that child’s face, though. I knew why, of course, but a familiar pang hit my chest nonetheless.

Suddenly, I lost my grip on the picture.

It fell from my hands and fluttered to the floor. I swore, reaching to pick it up, and then I froze. I could see words written across the back.

“Don’t forget to smile.”

I felt my heart skip a beat. How was that...possible? These pictures were printed this week. And besides, I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Was it possible that those rumors about that shop were true?

I held the picture in my hands, eyes glued to the message, reading it and re-reading it, almost afraid that it would disappear any second.

When I was nine, my mother died. Her sickness had reached the point beyond saving, and she passed away late at night in her sleep when I was not with her.

I’d cried so much, even though I’d known it was coming. We all did. Dad cried even more than me. She’d been the love of his life, and losing her had broken him.

Our little apartment grew larger and quieter after she died.

Years passed, and I grew up. I moved out. Dad still lived alone in that apartment, unable to let go, but I’d moved to a different city. That one had simply held too much weight from my childhood.

We still called, every now and then, but it never seemed like he was doing better. Rather, it always seemed like he was getting worse.

I’d always remembered that camera, but it had taken me so long to find the courage to take in the film to be developed, knowing the pictures would show a story of a happier time.

But I had no idea that I would be reminded of something like this, something I thought I had forgotten so long ago.

“Don't forget to smile.” Mom had loved having photos taken of her, but even more than that, she’d loved taking photos of us. Her people, she called us, with a little giggle.

“Don’t forget to smile.” That’s what she would always say as she tilted the camera at us, dad grumbling that she didn’t have to take a picture of everything she saw. I knew he secretly loved it, though, just like he loved her.

“Don’t forget…” Tears started falling onto my cheeks before I realized I’d started crying. A couple hit the photograph before I covered my face with my hands. A deep sob shook my whole body, and I sat at my table, crying at this simple message from so long ago.

Finally, the tears stopped, and I smiled down at the photograph. “Thank you,” I said aloud to no one.

I sent the picture to dad, who called me in a tearful mess, thanking me for the gift. I told him to thank mom, not me, and we laughed because that was just the sort of thing she’d have said. Then, over the phone, we began to talk about our memories of mom for the first time in years.

The bell to the shop rang, and the black-haired man looked up. His partner came around from the back of the store, studying me with those quizzical eyes.

I explained that I’d been here a few weeks back, and he replied that he knew, as they didn’t receive many customers. But it looked like he wasn’t telling the whole truth, like there was another reason.

“I don’t know how you did it,” I began. “But thank you.”

The man’s eyes looked sad all of a sudden. He inhaled sharply, then smiled at me; it was bright and warm, full teeth, like my mom’s smiles. “It was no problem. Just my job.” He eyed the other man, who now turned his inquisitive gaze to his partner.

“I just wanted you to know that your message meant a lot to me. That’s all.” 

He nodded quickly. “Thank you.”

I frowned, wondering why he was suddenly thanking me when he was the one who’d helped me. These two were an odd pair, from what I’d both heard and experienced, but kind. I felt grateful for their help, and wished I could give them more business. Photography surely wasn’t a booming business.

“I’ll let you know if I find any more film to be developed,” I said, giving the quiet one a nod as I left the store.

I walked down the side walk alone as the sun began to set for the day, finally feeling something loosen inside my chest after ten long years. I had no clue how that man had done it, how he’d found those words I thought I’d lost. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe someone close to him had told him something similar. Either way, it had opened some kind of door to healing for both me and dad, and that was something I would always be truly grateful to him for.

I continued down the road, ready to turn toward the train station in another block or two. But for now, I would simply enjoy the day. That’s what mom would have done. Feeling the warm sun against my face, I let myself smile.