When I was a kid
my mother had a camera
and a stack of photo albums.
We'd sit on the couch
and look through them,
all those old photographs
of her parents and grandparents,
black and white,
everybody dressed up
like they were waiting
for the Wild West to begin.
She loved those pictures
and the stories behind them,
the names and faces
of people I'd never know,
but somehow felt I knew
because she'd tell me about them.
She'd make us stand still
for birthdays, Christmas, school pictures,
whatever mattered enough to freeze.
There was the old Polaroid too.
We'd stage the stupidest shit.
Pretend we were sleeping.
Pretend we were watching the rain
through the window,
holding a baseball mitt,
because apparently
that's what baseball players did
on rainy afternoons.
She'd comb our hair just right,
stage us beside a glass swan
or a book,
and snap the picture
before we could ruin it.
Years later
I'd open those albums
and stare at faces
I barely recognized.
There's my mother.
There's me.
There's people
who don't send letters anymore.
People who disappeared
into the mechanics of time.
I could still hear my mother's voice
telling me who they were,
but the years had already
started taking their cut.
Then I had children
and became the guy
behind the camera.
Birthdays, Christmas, first steps,
fishing at Whitmore Pond,
little faces covered in cake,
all the important shit
you think you'll remember forever.
I kept taking pictures
like I could save them,
like if I caught enough moments
on film
they couldn't get away.
Now the camera's in my phone.
No film.
No flashbulbs.
No waiting.
Just point and click,
and another little piece
of your life
gets stored somewhere
in the cloud
with a million other pictures
you'll probably never print.
My mom's gone.
My children have grown.
The house is quieter.
The old albums are still around.
And every now and then
I scroll through those pictures
and realize
life doesn't walk away.
It races.
It tears down the street
like it stole something.
And the camera never stopped
whirring, clicking, working.
It was taking pictures
the whole damn time.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 15th, 2026 07:42
- Comment from author about the poem: I just put up a brand new poetry reading on my YouTube channel. I post videos of my attempts at golf and fishing and, of course, poetry readings: https://www.youtube.com/@ThomasWCase All of my books are available on Amazon, and my latest book, Searching for Nod, will be out in October: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?ref=sr_
- Category: Unclassified
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Comments10
This poem both literal and a metaphor takes me back to going through family pictures with my aunt. They were sepia and of over a hundred years ago of people some of which no one knew their names and some with names written that no one recognized. Then my family pictures of my children and wife and times long past. Times of fun, love and romance frozen in time memories. A wonderful write Thomas. Now I keep such photos in my head. A fave my friend
Thank you, my friend.
Always a pleasure
Well written
ty
wonderful piece my friend
Thanks
most welcome
Yes, once upon a time our parents had a black album full of pictures. Generations lived in those albums, and they had names.
Now we click and scroll, but the photo's aren't tangible, they don't feel like history in your hands, and maybe that''s whats missing now.
I agree. Thank you.
I've always been fascinated by the Camera 📸 I'm always fascinated by the fact it can do what it does and capture a moment in time that can be kept and looked at. I'm not sure who invented it because when I do research it's quite difficult to understand, love your poem dear Thomas, my parents both gone now but I have them in photos. 🌹
Thank you, sweet Teddy.
Nostalgia, memory, changing technology - it's all there, Thomas. It became my experience, rather than yours. This not to be taken as robbery but as the most enduring (goes with the photos) tribute I can make.
Thanks, Dave. I appreciate you.
I think we underestimate the Invention that is the Camera. We are in a better position than People Centuries back when they had to commit Faces to memory.
A fine Poem as usual. And Fave.
Thank you.
My Pleasure.
A deeply moving reflection on memory, family, and time. The ending is especially powerful—the camera becomes a metaphor for life itself, quietly recording everything while we barely notice how quickly it passes.
Thanks.
You are welcome my friend.
I do the same - click pics of family and friends;when looking through old albums relive the beautiful moments and memories ✌️it’s a good habit and hobby
Thank you, my friend.
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