The Last Photograph

In a society where social media reigns supreme, photos have become so common that they border on being mundane. Our camera rolls are filled with slight variations of the same shot in pursuit of the perfect pose and lighting to foster the desired amounts of likes and engagements. Gone are the days of winding film, taking a snap, and waiting a few weeks only to find out more than half of the images are complete crap. I sometimes wonder if the instant gratification of everyone having a camera always at their fingertips has led people to take these frozen moments completely for granted. This has never struck me quite so hard as a photo of my sisters and I at my nephew's graduation. You don't think of the evolutionary power an image can hold when a photo is snapped. Typically it isn't until you look back on the memories that it hits you... especially when the biggest unknown part of that moment is that it will become the last photograph.

I look at it now, feeling an empty ache mixed with sentimentality, but that wasn't always the case. Back before I knew what it would become, there was an overwhelming feeling of contempt when I looked at this photograph. It was a visual reminder of how I never quite fit into my family, even on a surface level. Physically I often felt like the odd girl out. I was chubby with auburn hair and freckles while my sisters were beautiful, blonde, and slender. Adding a nearly decade long age gap to that, my general awkward nerdiness, and a few disorders on my part didn't do much to lessen my perpetual otherness. This photograph seemed to embody every difference even without factoring in the difficult family relations that come and go through tough times in our lives.

I remember another photo growing up. It sat atop the desk where my dad always sat to pay bills. It was an old black and white family photograph full of smiling faces except for one sourpuss kid at the end. That kid was my dad. The first time he showed me this picture, I was the kid being a grump. You see, I never really liked to be photographed, even at a young age. Kids are cruel and I was bullied for my weight pretty early in my school years, so I learned to hate photos of myself. My mom on the other hand was an avid memory preserver. If there was an opportunity to photograph her family, she was taking it whether we liked it or not. Needless to say, this often elicited pouting on my end. This particular day, however, my dad was not having it. He showed me this photo and explained that it was the last time he had his picture taken with his father who had passed away when he was a kid. He told me how he couldn't even remember why he was upset and how much he regretted not smiling for the camera one last time. This stuck with me and I tried to be a better sport about the incessant "say cheese" moments.

While I may have learned to suck it up for my mom's sake, I don't think I ever really understood the impact looking back on the final photograph you will ever take with someone could have... at least not until about 5 months after this photo was taken. I remember so vividly the day I got the call. I worked at a place where we were not allowed to have our phones out unless we were on break, so I had a habit of glancing at my notifications when I needed a restroom break. On this particular day there were a concerning amount, so I checked my voicemail. My middle sister, sounding tired and serious had left a message for me to call her ASAP. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as she is not an alarmist by any stretch of the imagination. Then I saw it, a text from my mom. "I know you and Shannon had your differences, but she passed away last night..."

There is nothing in this world that could have prepared me for that message. While I am not willing to share details, my big sister had struggled with alcohol for quite some time at this point. As anyone who has loved an addict knows, there are challenges and breaking points... but there is also still love no matter how bad it gets. The differences my mom referred to was a big fight my sister and I had had two weeks prior over a burger. Obviously it was bigger than the burger and more about her drinking and my inability to make time for her. The burger I dropped off without staying to have dinner was just that last fuse that inevitably blew. We were both in a difficult emotional place and it escalated until we just kind of stopped talking and she blocked me on social media. I figured it would blow over as it always did in a month or so, but I had no idea that the make-up would never come. She was gone, taking with her any chance to make it right.

I never really understood the regret my dad once told me of until that day. I have lost people over the years but never in such a way that left me wondering if they had any idea how much I cared. This is something I'm still struggling to process and work through four years later. I may never fully heal from the loss, but at least I do have one smiling moment to hang onto captured in one last photograph.