The time to write about my graduation ceremony has long passed, and yet I still cling tenaciously to the spare images I captured of that day, as if they might become the catalyst for my next great novel. They stand alone, in the pile of unpublished images, separate from any other event or story I might use them to illustrate, gathering more digital dust with every passing year. Others join them, like the snapshot of a chef at work now halfway around the world. Random facades of buildings that seemed noteworthy, but don’t quite merit a full article by themselves.

I can’t bring myself to trash them, to erase those memories, to simply forget those moments. The camera is my only method of preserving such happy times, more trustworthy than my feeble mind, and far sharper than my often nebulous words. Digging them out of the archive to share them as is, without context, is the only way I can think to certify their existence at this point. A random grab bag of pictures without theme or connection, I’d like to believe that they still speak volumes individually, and perhaps together, in the broader story of a life well lived.

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