Photographs

It seems the older I get the more my memories are encapsulated in photographs in my mind. Like I'm not sure I remember how gritty and sweet the ring around my lips tasted after finishing an afternoon treat on a family camping trip. When I touch my hair it no longer conjurs up how strawlike the ends felt after chewing them between my teeth. And I can't remember how I related to my cousin equally, before I started seeing her as the 'pretty one' which left me unappily introverted at family functions. Instead I stare intently at the photograph, of two toddler girls sitting happily on the step of our tent-trailer and wonder, what happened to these memories as living breathing entities jostling around in my head? What did the sensation of warm orange soda feel like sliding down my throat and dripping off my chin? What was the ratio of dust to water to form the mud tracks for my brother's army men? And what did the duct tape holding the canvas sides of the trailer together sound like as pine-needles landed in the middle of the night? Lamott said to begin to write with remembering all the details of small events in our lives, like the first day of kindegarten or our Christmas as a 10 year old. I wonder, if perhaps I can start with photographs, until I can remember some memories...