I am a camera by Tori O'Brien

The first memory I ever captured was of a baby swaddled in a pink blanket—dried tears staining her little cheeks. The baby was held to a woman’s chest. The woman gave me a tired smile and tilted the baby towards me. With a click, the memory was captured in my mind. I was placed down, but I could still hear the new parents cooing quietly. I cradled the new memory and held it close within my being. I hoped they would give me more. 

The baby was cradled against the father's chest as they slowly swayed in the kitchen. Soft music played as the father stirred a pot. He rubbed circles into the baby's back with his other hand. There was quiet giggling behind me as the mother held me up so I could see. The father looks over his shoulder when the mother giggles too loudly and spots us. He smiles slightly as he turns so I can see the baby more easily. The baby is bigger than the last time I saw it. Instead of a blanket, they had a onesie on. The mother laughs out loud this time, and the father’s face scrunches. The pot bubbles behind him, and he quickly puts a lid on it and turns the burner off. The mother laughs and takes the baby out of his arms. She puts me on the table before cradling the baby properly as the father returns to stirring the pot. 

The baby is sitting in a pale blue high chair; her parents are nowhere to be seen. I can hear the faint clicking of silverware and a knife hitting a cutting board. The baby’s parents come into view again, and the father is holding something yellow. He places it on the baby’s tray table before sitting down next to the baby, with the mother on the baby’s other side. The baby is quick to pick it up and put it in her mouth. The baby’s tiny face scrunches up in disgust, and throws the lemon. The parents’ faces turn red in her laughter. 

The baby’s mother was placing the baby on the ground. Toddler now, I guess. She held her arms out to either side of the toddler. The father came out from behind me and stood a couple of steps away from the pair. He crouched down and mirrored the mother's arms. He called the toddler over to him. The girl’s little face scrunched in concentration as the toddler took a wobbly step towards the father. They take another and another until they fall into the father’s arms. The parents beam at the toddler as the toddler giggles into the father’s chest. 

I watch as they get bigger and bigger.

The toddler’s parents make a bet about who will be the toddler's first word. 

The toddler’s first word is mango. 

They both lost the bet. 

The child loves climbing onto the roof of the playset. 

They cackle from the top as the parents scramble to get them down. 

The child’s father pulls a tiny yellow backpack over the child’s shoulder. His face is red, and his eyes are shiny. 

He takes the little hand and walks up the steps of school. 

I can hear the child’s mother sniffle behind me. 

The child is holding an armfull of colorful seashells. 

She drops the tiny ones with every step.

The child dumps them all in her mother's arms before continuing the endeavor to take every shell at the beach. 

She shrieks when picking up a crab by accident. 

The child skips across the stage in a little black robe and hat. She grabs a piece of paper, and a man bends down to shake her little hand. Her father spins them around in his arms as they laugh. 

In a mirror image of a previous memory, 

The child’s mother pulls a pastel purple backpack over the child’s shoulders,

covered in butterflies. 

She stumbles as the beaming child drags her up the stairs. 

The child proudly holds up a picture to the camera. 

Her left hand was covered in paint.

Fingerprints are left dotting the furniture and walls. 

The kid climbs the steps of a bus, waving over her shoulder. Shes are holding a little red bag in the opposite hand. 

Her backpack’s color seems to be fading at the edges. 

Her smile still stretches from ear to ear.

She grows very quickly. 

From science fairs, to sleepovers, to birthday parties, to new pets.  

She pretended to be asleep so they would be carried inside from the car. At least that's what she claimed. 

4th grade: 

Field trips, snowball fights, bike rides

5th grade: 

Scavenger hunts, science fairs, history presentations, 

Middle school: 

Old new people, family game nights, walking home, climbing trees, 

High school: 

Clubs, presentations, learning to drive, SAT, 

Gradation 

The baby, turned toddler, turned child, turned kid, turned preteen, turned teenager, turned young adult, 

Walks across the stage in a black robe and hat.                                                    They give her a gold-edged paper 

She turns and holds it up proudly 

Her parents cheer so loudly that the people next to them cover their ears

She runs over to the parents and wraps her arms around them. All three are red-faced and teary-eyed 

Her name is called by other little kids in other little robes 

They take photo after photo, displaying the diploma 

She returns to her parents to continue celebrating 

The trunk can barely close over with boxes in the back.                     There are two suitcases wedged into the back seat 

The family of three all squeezes into the car 

The family stands before a large building 

The trunk is empty 

The father wipes his eyes and hugs his kid 

The mother is quick to join 

She buries her face in her parents' shoulders and holds them back

She pulls back and smiles at the parents 

Her parents are slow to get back into the car 

The young adults wave as they pull away 

I am a camera. 

My job is to capture memories. 

I will protect those memories with all I have. 

I don’t have much. 

Just them. 

Just her. 

There are many like me. 

But only I got to watch the baby grow. 

And when the baby’s parents show me off to a new person, and a blushing woman who used to be my baby. 

I know there is more to see.