Through the pocket of some ripped jeans of a young lover, comes a photograph of his girl. Inside a womanâ€™s necklace, dangles the picture of her two young kids. An old man finds solace in his dead wifeâ€™s picture. Thatâ€™s the power of a photograph.
Walking past the framed pictures in my grandmotherâ€˜s lobby ignites a light inside me. A spark that ambushes every dark memory and reminds me of my childhood. And itâ€™s that time I realize how we underestimate the power of photographs.
Coming back from college, tired and dejected. Grandma couldn’t see how her usual chirpy grand-kid was now sitting quietly. She knew how to release the magic. Grandma would make my favourite ice-cream and open old photographs without asking if I had a bad day.
Along with the photographs were her stories of how naughty her grand-kids were. â€œYou would steal from your fatherâ€™s wallet and buy candy flossâ€, followed by a roar of laughter. Once pointing out to a photograph of me and my brother, she exclaimed how my brother pinched me every time my mother went out of the room. â€œBut why?â€ I couldn’t believe that my own over-protective brother could resort to that. Just seeing the photograph of me with red cheeks was enough to crack us up.
There might be a difference of miles between her favourite grand-kids but every time I open my wallet, my brother magically appears to give me determination. A habit that we picked up from our grandmother. And even after all this while, we are glad we did.