Faded Photographs

The other day, my friend's daughter snapped a picture of us with her new Polaroid camera.

They say the camera doesn't lie, which we all know is a lie, but an old fashioned Polaroid only lies because it has to. We watched the photograph as it slowly came into blissfully poor focus, blurring the lines on our faces and softening the rough edges. Three cheers for antiquated technology! Had I only thought to jut my elbow out to the side the way girls do these days to make even the flabbiest arm look like a scrawny chicken wing the image would have been perfect.

Somewhere in the apartment where I grew up, there are dozens of musty albums filled with photographs that look strangely similar to this one. The thin white border tucked into tiny photo corners, the glossy finish capturing shifts in light and the shadows of turning pages, people captured together forever in an indelible moment in time. These are not pictures you scroll through, not like the infinite rows of thumbnail shots stored on our cell phones. These are not pictures you could delete with a quick tap of the thumb. Each one has value, even if it is only the cost of the small rectangle of paper. You could always rip one up, but you didn't do so lightly.

I tucked the new picture in my purse. It's way too complicated to post a tangible photo on Facebook. Oddly, we are no longer amazed when our phones, cordless but attached to us always, can double as a camera (not to mention library, credit card, flashlight, mail carrier -- I suppose "double" is a bit of an understatement). But my friend and I watched, fascinated, as the Polaroid spit out a shiny blank rectangle that gradually turned into a flatteringly fuzzy reflection of us.  The moment it appeared it looked ancient, suggesting my friend and I had known each other forever. Or at least since the seventies.

We have not, although we seem to have just missed each other on several occasions. We are the same age, but we grew up in different places. Mutual friends and acquaintances have moved through our lives at different points on our time line. We attended the same school in the same remote town in New York State, at different times. We struggle similarly with the next chapter in our lives, wondering what to do with our expensive degrees, our stiffening joints, our children, who no longer depend upon us to make their decisions. Most of the time, anyway.

I remember when I retired my once very cool Polaroid Swinger for a much cooler Kodak Instamatic. My friend probably has similar memories. My friend's daughter likely has never heard of a Kodak Instamatic, but who knows, that may be next. Let's face it, the Polaroid has too many moving parts, and here in the twenty-first century we don't like too many moving parts. We multi-task and we consolidate, we "out" the old and "in" the new. We like recycling quaint old ideas, like Polaroids and Kodak Instamatics, and bell bottoms, and -- Lord help us all -- shoulder pads, but only for a short time.

I will cherish the Polaroid snapshot in my purse. It is a reminder of a shared past and a shared present.