proof I exist

After my cousin Molly passed away last year, I spent a lot of time going through all of the pictures she had amassed on facebook (my sister and I made a memory book of her photos and memories from family and friends). And my oh my did that girl have a lot of photos. Like many teenage girls, she vacillated between narcissism and self loathing, but still she took pictures of everything she did, everywhere she went, everyone she loved. Of course we will always carry our memories of Molly with us, but it's nice to have so many of them down on paper (or rather on the computer). It's easy to get more than a glimmer of her impish personality from those pictures. It's proof of how she lived, laughed, loved.

It made me start wondering what kind of memories I've left behind. I'm terribly bad about keeping a journal (this blog is about the closest thing to one I've ever had), and apparently I don't really take pictures either because as I went through many of the photos I'd taken since I left home 12 years ago (twelve years! I can't believe it), I was a little shocked to find how few there were. Of all my adventures, there were only a handful of  small folders of pictures, many of which did not include any people. And it made me a little sad. All those memories, lost to the past, evident only in what I can remember and may/may not write down at some point.

So I made a resolution, one that I've really not been that great about keeping thus far: to take more pictures. I want to be able to look back at my life and see how I lived. I want my children to know who my best friends were from more than just 1 or 2 pictures (and preferably know them in real life). I don't want to forget. And I don't want to be forgotten.