Proof of Life

I was a really cute baby. But that's not the whole story.

I’ll be honest. I’ve struggled with how to talk about this gift my younger brother gave me over Thanksgiving. A week before he came here to visit, he emailed to say that he’d been at our mother’s house (he sees her regularly; I do not), and he came across a box of my childhood keepsakes in her garage. Not just any box, but THE BOX. The box that I had asked for decades before, which she said she misplaced, and then in 2013 she said was destroyed in an epic flood. Somehow, miraculously, my brothers’ keepsakes had survived, but mine did not.

My process of grieving Alan’s sudden death was compounded by the fact that I had so few photographs of me, of him, of us together. In fact, I had so little physical proof that I existed at all. I fled home at 17 with a couple boxes of clothes, books, and music. So much of what I’d left behind disappeared, which mirrored my emotional experience. I was invisible, erased.

“A photograph will change shape, shift loyalty, reflect a different history depending on who is holding it. As long as my keepsakes were trapped in my mother’s house, they were never really safe, never really mine.” - Chapter 15, Forces of Nature

Now, it’s 2024. Alan’s been gone eight years. And here is this album in my hands. It’s a baby book, actually, so in between handwritten notes about my poor sleeping and eating habits and milestones like first word (Hi!) and first steps (11 months) are posed studio portraits. The portraits are adorable. They document my growth, my smiles. But don’t really tell me much about what life was like back then.

There are a few candid shots, which I treasure, especially the one of my dad holding me. I think it’s one of the only pictures I’ve ever seen of him and me when I was a baby.

I’m so grateful to have this book, these images. I’ve been slowly processing and trying to recall what was happening at each milestone. I remember my 4th birthday (bottom center). I had my friend Kathryn over for cake. I got this doll that you put makeup on, and we made it look like a deranged clown. Then my dad took us to see a Disney movie at the theater. I remember my dog Puff, the little West Highland terrier that my parents adopted for me right before my little brother was born (we neglected her terribly, sad to say). There were many joint birthday parties for me and Alan (my birthday is late December, his early January).

And still, the words I wrote in Forces of Nature hold true:

“…photographs never tell the complete story. Like my mother’s carefully decorated home, like the dresses and bows she dressed me in, we show people what we want them to see. I’d wanted that box to give me some deeper truth about myself, about my family, about Alan. I thought it would help me reclaim my childhood, piece it all together in a way that makes sense and brings some comfort or closure. But I realize now that even before the flood, the keepsakes were fragile. They only hinted at the story.”

The album ends after my fourth birthday. The last pages are blank.

My 17-year-old daughter flipped through the book with me and said, “I get now why you took so many candid photos of us growing up.”

It’s true. I captured everything — the more mundane the better. I have photos of my kids riding in grocery carts and painting each other’s nails and eating tacos on a sunny Arizona patio and sleeping in weird places and dancing and singing. I captured their sour moods, their messy rooms, their first days of school, their rock collections, piles of shoes at the front door, and their wild, post-nap hair.

I wanted them to look at these pictures someday and see themselves as I saw them. I wanted them to be able to fill in as many details and backstories as possible. I wanted to celebrate the painful moments, the imperfections as much as the triumphs.

I also tried to make sure Kris and I were in the photos as much as possible. Even if we didn’t feel like it, I wanted the kids to see that we were there, that we held them and knew them and loved and protected them. Maybe they can look back and see our delight and our exhaustion — an honest, full picture. The new legacy we created.

In Other News…

• ‘Tis the season for grief and family estrangement. When your feelings about the holidays are mixed, these 8 movies might help.

• Or maybe try this December music playlist that isn’t merry and bright?

• Once I stopped trying to fix my annual grief triggers, I actually began to feel better.

• Writing a memoir is not the thing that heals you.

• Oh, hey! Look! Forces of Nature won the 2024 Best Indie Book Award! That means the cover gets a new, fun, shiny gold sticker and I get to add “award-winning author” to my bio. Woot!

Cheers to the end of 2024, whatever that means for you. I personally don’t do year-end recaps or New Year’s resolutions. So I’ll just ask: How are you feeling about this turn of the calendar page?