I have this camera. It’s two years, one month & three weeks old today. It’s an old, blue, plastic disposable Polaroid camera that is partially covered in dust. It makes it’s way to random places in my house because it has no real, “spot.” Some weeks it sits on my dryer, other times it sits on my printer or my dresser & sometimes on the kitchen counter. Most of the time it stays hidden in my desk drawer.
I have this camera. It was given to us in a box along with literature on what to do after the loss of a child. In the box was also a delicate, white bonnet & gown. There was a small book with stories about other people who had lost a baby. And there was this camera. This old, blue, plastic, disposable Polaroid camera.
I have this camera. It is filled with photos that a nurse took after Liam died. Photos I couldn’t bear to take that morning. I try to pay as little attention to this camera as possible. Some days, I pull it from my desk drawer & place it on top of my dryer. I think triumphantly, “Today, I will drop off this camera for developing.” I then ignore it as I walk out the door. The camera ends up being moved. The printer, my dresser, the kitchen counter until it eventually ends up in my desk drawer. Where it can be ignored.
I have this camera. Today, it was sitting on top of my printer. On a stack of Collin’s first birthday invitations. The camera was sitting directly on top, staring right at me. I don’t remember moving the camera. I don’t remember placing it on top of the invitations I was presently stuffing into envelopes, but it’s sitting there. It’s sitting right there, asking me why. Why have you waited so long?
I have this camera. A camera I finally feel I’m ready for. A camera I will be dropping of for developing today.