Snap.

     The glass breaks.

     Reality shatters. The world floods in at the edges and it all comes back. Snap. The camera shutters once again and the picture becomes more clear. It takes several clicks for images to form, several shots to get the picture right. Children grow up forgetting days, struggles, bruises, or kisses. One can’t save every short lived blessing or curse. There are only a few moments that a person recalls on their deathbed. It’s not the memories that cause cold sweats at three am, it’s not the memories that cause giggles or cheeks to blush, but they make us sigh later on.

     The camera doesn't catch the moments leading up to it. A girl poses, the cameraman mimics a smile, a bird flies by high above, a biker rides off the sidewalk, a car speed down the street. 

     The camera catches the girl, the trees, the pond, and faint memories of Maine. It doesn't catch the sound of metal hitting metal, the startling thunder-like clap of a bikers life being taken by a vehicle. 

     The camera doesn't catch the hospital bills, the widow, the guilt, the sadness. It catches a happy girl moments before disaster, without any trace of it in the photo. It captures a split second. A moment of stillness, as motionless and lifeless as the mangled corpse of the man who’s name was never remembered, but who’s accident was never forgotten.

     Time is snapshots, it is memories and feelings tucked away in a small, greater scheme. It’s weird how that works. It captures the big picture, but leaves behind so many details.

     Time is history playing itself out. They only cover so much, hopping from one subject to another. Nobody knows the man behind the camera, names whispered when brought up, but ultimately forgotten in the long run. Like a God, presenting life like a platter, but never partaking in the feast. They are in control for the big things. 

     They make those moments captured, they let the feelings linger on. 

    The photos are arbitrary, both candid or planned. They are a moment picked out of a billion moments. They keep track of the who, where, and why, letting the blanks be filled by missing seconds some can only graze rather than grasp. 

     When standing in a field, the sounds of birds chirping and grasshoppers playing are in the air. The grass is itchy against flesh, nails reaching down to pick at the phantom feelings that course through warm veins. Hair moves as the wind whistles along to an unknown song and clothes dance around to its beat. Petrichor clings to the air, wild flowers bloom beneath noses, the morning dew preserving both. A photograph only captures one movement, one moment, one second. 

     It takes a snapshot. It doesn't itch, it doesn't smell, it doesn't make noise. It simply brings back memories of frolicking, laughing, screaming, crying. 

     Names are forgotten, faces blurred, words reduced to contorted gibberish, and all that’s left is a picture, one that leaves a smile on chapped lips, only to be tucked away until the attic gets cleaned again. It grows old with the cobwebs and the wood, it gets buried under a million other memories, until the snapshot is forgotten. 

     Some become so invested in catching those little moments from behind the lens, that they forget to join in. They become a God for only a second, until their final breath leaves them and they realize they never lived in the moment. 

     Snap.

     The glass breaks.

     Reality shatters, as easy as breaking delicate glass. The world floods in at the edges and it all comes back. A giggle. The camera gets set down, the picture becomes more clear. It takes a few seconds to remember every detail, for feelings to return, several moments to reflect on life. Children grow up laughing and playing, forgetting the struggles, bruises, and lost friendships. There are only a few moments that a person recalls on their deathbed. It’s not the memories that cause cold sweats at three am, it’s not the memories that causes giggles or cheeks to blush. It’s the memories they make that are worth remembering that allows for the small details to flood back. It’s almost like living again, if only for a second. 

     The finer details clean up the attic- one that’s forever there until death. The toy car shoved away to hide the bike sized dent in the front, the flower preserved from the field that day, a photo of friends and family- names inscribed on the back- it may not always be verbatim, but each symbol represents a time in which emotions took over bodies and minds, where life got to be in the moment. Every detail jotted down frantically as oxytocin is released and humans relax. They sigh, they feel, they remember.

     Snapshots aid in remembering, but if one’s focus is absorbed in merely taking snapshots, they start to lose their meaning, their attached feelings. 

     Snap.

     The glass shatters.

     Reality is for the taking.

     And maybe pictures aren’t truly worth a thousand words, but founded upon millions of unearthed feelings.