Susan MacNeil

I am obsessed with photographs.

I come to it honestly. My mother was never without a camera handy and, inevitably, either an escaped permed curl or fingertip would find its way in front of the lens.  With each pose she somehow forgot where to find the button, plunging her index finger on the plastic frame repeatedly until, laughing, she realized that nothing was happening.

I’ve coveted her colorized high school photo in its gold filigree frame since I was in high school, sitting on each of my bedroom bureaus for the last 50 years. Her cheeks a demure pink, rose red lips, too thick eyebrows, Shirley Temple curls on her forehead which began a hairstyle that never wavered. (Except for that one time when she came home from a hairdresser who mistakenly believed that a teased coiffure was a look she would appreciate.  I loved it.  She did not.)

But it’s her blue eyes that didn’t require a tint, then or now.  At age 89, those eyes still hold every felt emotion, a trait she gave to me.  I see the promise of her kind heart and generous spirit looking honestly into the lens, anticipating an unknown world ahead.

Although I appreciate the convenience of my iphone, it’s the app that turns those digital images into photographs that I love best.  Because there’s my mother, her gaze still loving, with one foot in the before and after of all she has seen. 

(And yes, Facebook posts require her pre-approval.)