In Just One Year ~ A Personal Reflection

This spring, I snapped a comparative photo, an exactly “one year later” moment of my littlest, 2 year old Tristan, by the apple tree in our backyard. I’d envisioned the differences – his hair, height, and big boy clothes – but when I opened the images up side-by-side I was completely struck by how much changes in the space of a year, a breath, a blink. The compulsive memory-keeper in me had a quiet panic attack: Where did those 12 months go? I hadn’t written down enough, hadn’t photographed enough, life had slipped by unrecorded in between dental appointments, packing lunches, and reading bedtime stories. Breathe. Of course it hadn’t just passed sneakily by; I was present (if, occasionally buried in laundry)! The truth is, a photo is deeply personal because of everything you don’t see. A photo is a spark, a puzzle piece, a sentence in a short story, novella, or – hopefully – great and fabulous work. This is where my fascination with photography meets my love of storytelling. And while I may not have time to journal every photo, or even 1 out of 1000, I know that as long as I live and breathe, I will love and remember.

~ May 25, 2011

Despite the rainy, windy spring we’ve had, the apple tree in our backyard has blossoms exploding on every branch. I love this time of year – not just May, but specifically, blossom time. It’s a celebration, invigorating, fresh, and beautiful. And every year, I wish the flowers didn’t fall so fast. There’s rain in the forecast and thick clouds, and so in a few days I know that the tree will be green and quiet again. “There weren’t near this many last year,” Mat commented when I took this photo of you snug in his hands while we waited for our dinner on the barbecue. I thought back; just one year ago, you were only 8 days old and I was so wrapped up in you, I don’t even remember the blossom situation. We were just getting to know you and even though you were a good size at 9 pounds, 8 ounces, you were so small. I photographed you madly, wanting to capture the tiniest details right down to your barely-there eyelashes. A year has already passed, and I feel the same urgency in the moment, the same conflicting desire to slow down time and simultaneously cheer you forward, celebrating every single milestone. I want to hold on. I want to remember the way you lift one foot up, bewildered by this new texture, when set in the grass. I want to remember your funny little “hunh, hunh” giggle and the way you throw your head back wanting more neck tickles and kisses, how you pull your hands up to your chin, tensing and laughing and wanting to play the game over and over again. I want to remember the way you wiggle and kick against me, hands reaching out, twisting invisible doorknobs when you’re excited. I want to remember it all, sweet boy, because just like that, I know the season will have changed on me yet again.

~ May 25, 2012

I felt, at first, a bit thwarted in my mission to capture this photo because the tree blossomed early this year. The weather warmed to record degrees for a few days in March and then we had a cold snap which apparently confused all the fruit trees. You are today’s blossom and oh how beautifully you stand out. Daddy blew trumpet sounds on your belly and your musical laugh had me wanting him to hold you and tickle you like that forever. Another year has passed and how quickly you’ve grown. These days, you’re talking up a storm and easily filling out size 2T clothing. You’re quite a character, mimicking William when he shows the neighbour the picture of a truck on his shirt even though your shirt is plaid with no picture, speaking leaps and volumes with those big brown eyes of yours, snuggling on my shoulder with your owl blankie and demanding I sing you the made-up “tratter” song about a boy named Tristan who puts the “tees” in the ignition and drives a tractor, “ray!” (hooray!).  Beyond adorable, that’s what you are at age 2. You’d eat a whole jar of “tickos” (pickles) if we’d let you and stay up all night reading “Moo Na Na” (Moo, Baa, Lalala) and Blue Hat, Green Hat. I want to be able to tell you all of this about amazing you when you’re 3, 4, 5, and 65…should I be so lucky. With smiling blue eyes and a slight tilt of her head, your Nana used to say “Are we lucky?” in her beautiful french way. She never meant it as a question. No matter how much changes, in a day, a year, or this entire brief lifetime, the answer would always be the same.

© Laura Reive

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