Click Bait

No one understood.  They kept shuffling photos of smiling faces back towards me like a never ending rolodex of faces and places that I had supposedly been to. The rejected photos were like piles of denial that just kept building up with no one noticing that their weight was causing their own collapse. I could feel the pressure in the room as they waited for any flicker of reminiscent acknowledgement. I wanted to say that I wasn’t the type of person that wished for this bittersweet reminiscence that others so “suffered with” but technically, I didn’t know what type of person I was. It is a really contradictory feeling to let down strangers. I cursed at my own face on the glossy layer until all I had left in me was disappointment. 

The doctors called it retrograde amnesia—a condition where memories before an accident are lost. That’s what led me to trying to piece my life together through old photographs. Who would’ve thought that my last resort of a savior would be sought in old corny backdrops and dusty forgotten shoeboxes? Have you ever been a new person in an old group of friends who decided it was a great idea to play ping pong of “remember whens” as you give out obligatory chuckles here and there. All the while, you have no idea what they are talking about. Imagine that but a thousand times worse. 

The laughter at the memories just dug my guilt even further. The only thing I can compare it to is a loud belly laugh that echoes through a dusty abandoned house. The culprit continues to laugh as they watch me choke on the dust of the long long hallways and every door is locked. Part of me wondered if they were mocking me on purpose. They were strangers after all.  My thoughts were running free as I pointlessly squinted at photo after photo even though I had given up long before that point.

The camera on the table stared back at me as if to say, “Escape now, Gracie.” Something stirred inside of me—a connection I couldn't quite grasp at that time. That is, until I had the camera in my own hands. I walked out of that house with nothing but the digital companion to keep me company- and with it, the feeling of having my own power for the first time since…well, since I literally couldn’t remember when! 

With every click, I felt there was some sort of justification as my subjects were frozen in time, as I had once felt. Being behind the lens was the only time that I felt like I was the observer instead of being the one pitied as “the girl who lost everything.” I was the master of this reality. Over time, the hope of “recollecting old memories by capturing new ones” was replaced with the joy of reflecting  on my new photos. 

The morning light dancing through my lace curtains on a Sunday morning.

Click.

The steam floating above my favorite coffee mug. 

Click. 

The fleeting moments that my subconscious feared would be gone forever if I didn’t act now.

Click. 

As the seasons changed, my camera became like my super powered eyes because it could somehow display my soul on a four by six magical screen. I was convinced that with every photo I took, my memory would never fail me again. 

One afternoon, I found myself in a quaint cafe nestled between two bustling shops. I paused at a table with old photographs for sale. One photo, in particular, caught my eye. It was a faded polaroid of a woman with windswept hair and a green suitcase by her side. Her smile was radiant as she raised her arms up towards the cafe sign pictured. I got this overwhelming realization that photographs live on past every single second after it was taken. Each one is a person’s legacy and the world’s time machine. 

Click. 

The click of the shutter felt like a heartbeat  as I took a photo of the old polaroid. (I also wondered if my obsession had made me a bit crazy but that was my normal now.) 

Just then, a voice broke through my trance—a man's voice, soft and tentative. "Excuse me, miss. Are you a photographer?" “I…I am?” I replied more like a question than an answer. Why did I feel like I had to explain my whole story to this stranger? What was I supposed to say? That this had become my everything after I had lost everything? I honestly felt a bit annoyed.  The old fart looked at the polaroid on the table. His eyes softened with understanding. He studied me for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. Then he said, "Memories are tricky things. Sometimes it's not just about remembering the past. It's about creating new memories, too. Ones that are just as precious."

I replied, “who the heck are you, frickin’ Santa Claus?!” Ok, I didn’t say that, but I thought it.  He flipped the polaroid to its back side. “Well I’ll be dang, same as my initials,” he said, revealing a cursive “JC” on the back. He shrugged and took the polaroid to the counter. Old fart even bought MY polaroid. Ugh. That night, the man’s words kept playing in my mind. Could it be that I had been so focused on reclaiming the past that I had overlooked the beauty of the present? “Maybe the mystery man has a point,” I thought as I drifted off to sleep. 

After the next day’s boring routines, I finally took out my camera and the woman's polaroid popped up as the last photo I had taken. Suddenly, I just needed to get out of the house. I walked instinctively back to that cafe. With each step, I felt a shift within me—a softening of the edges that had hardened in the wake of my amnesia. I took in the senses of the quaint area. I watched the string lights sway in the wind. When I watch, I capture. Click. The sound echoed in the stillness of the evening, a promise of new beginnings and the possibility of rediscovering myself in a new way. Perhaps memories weren't meant to be forced or hunted down like elusive prey. Perhaps they were just meant to be made. 

As I finished the last sips of my espresso, a familiar face appeared. It was the smart old fart who wasn’t really a fart again. “Are you following me?” I asked. “Um, I work here…” the man replied, pointing to his badge. I mumbled an apology and then realized that I had been thrown off  because I had just seen a familiar face. I HAD JUST SEEN A FAMILIAR FACE for the first time since the accident.  I looked at him with bewildering eyes, trying to figure out this new sensation. Now I was the crazy one.

 I jumped up with renewed energy, my camera swinging at my side. Ow. I rushed away so fast that I hardly heard the man calling, “Graycie, come back!” The cool breeze blew against my skin, carrying with it the promise of tomorrow and the endless possibilities that lay ahead. I rushed home, reanalyzing everything. 

I stayed up rearranging photos from after the accident like a home decor store all around my apartment. Some here, some there, creating a montage of my life. MY life that I had just claimed! As I looked at the scrapbook of everyday moments and events before me, I could recall every single feeling that came with each beloved “click”. The feeling behind every one was so deep in my heart that I knew that I was on the brink of a new chapter. A life filled with hope, discovery, and the magic of capturing this life’s big and small moments, one click at a time. 

Seeing how far the life that I had started from scratch had come, I felt the deepest sense of solace that I ever felt. As I rested my head down in gratitude, a photo from those scattered around peeped out. To my astonishment, it was the faded polaroid of a woman with the windswept hair and a green suitcase by her side smiling under the cafe sign. When I flipped it over, I gaped at the cursive initials “JC” on the back….