The Polaroid

I was born in a flash of light. From darkness I formed a memory, frozen in time. A moment so loved it needed to be kept and shared. I was treasured and loved, just like the moment I kept. That beloved memory was infused within me and I had to protect it. I was pinned to a cork board, looked upon day after day. It didn’t hurt at all, not any different than a pierced ear for a human. That cork board held so many hopes and dreams, and places pinned on a small map that held longed for adventures.

Somehow in that longing for adventure, things began to take motion for them to really happen. We were moving, starting fresh in one of those pushpins on the map. I was taken down from the cork board, along with the other photos, post cards, ticket stubs and the trusty map of hopes. Boxed away together until we got to our next destination. There was a new cork board though, and things were rearranged, but it still felt like home to me. I watched more memories join me, surrounding me with love and joy. Even in the hard times, we were reminders of the good times and the hope for the better times to come.

There was a time when I was boxed up and placed near the top of the box. I could see light now and then, until one day a large gust of wind blew the car door wider than it was meant and the box I was in opened. For a moment I floated on the wind. Sailed just like a kite of reminiscence. She gathered as much as she could, but I had blown under the next car, shaded by shadows, photo side down. I know she didn’t notice I was gone, it wasn’t her fault. It stung to know I was just a fragment of that memory for her now. I still had a piece of her forever, but she was probably cities away by the time I saw light again.

I saw a gentle face peering down at me, curious about what I was. There’s a wondering about a lost photograph, especially one face down. That curiousity got the best of them, and they flipped me over to see what details of my story they could decode. I could have just been trash, but they picked me up and stuffed me into their sweatshirt pocket. It was warm and safe there. I don’t know how I got lucky enough for someone to flip me over and find out I was someone’s moment so treasured they had to preserve it. They could make up stories for me now, let their imagination run wild and free like my seconds on the wind’s back.

I was pinned on a cork board, for anyone to bring me to life again, a new story, a new lifetime. Only I knew the truth, where the memory remained, what really happened. Someonewhere out there, she held that memory too, as long as her lifetime would let her.

‘Tis in my memory lock’d,

And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

– William Shakespeare

Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3.