My screen saver shows photographs from my childhood and the early years of our marriage, up until this month. Our son includes pictures from his siblings such that the trove exceeds four thousand shots.

 

Often there are captures side by side that contradict. One is of Lukas holding his baby sister, next to another of them exploring Europe together. Or there will be one of my young husband with chocolate hair beside one of him holding our granddaughter, looking rather like Santa. I find the discrepancies charming, knowing that John is still John regardless of the color under his hat. Even the surroundings speak of contrast. Outside my window is a foot of snow, which is incongruous with the photos of my daughters in bathing suits at the shore. The images slide seamlessly between countries, seasons, and decades, and circumstances that have shifted like dunes in the wind. When I see a baby I know who it is, even though they look vastly different than they did on our last video chat. Neither am I fooled by hair that changes shade and length according to whimsy. 

 

The other day I thought of someone I knew in high school. My knee jerk reaction was to replay old snapshots of how they behaved forty years ago. But that stereotype rests on the dubious belief that they have not changed. How narcissistic of me, to freeze people in a position that they probably outgrew a decade ago.