The other day, when I was looking for something in one of our junk drawers (whose numbers keep growing; it’s like they breed other junk drawers), I found a Ziploc bag of undeveloped film. I don’t know if “film” is even in the dictionary anymore, so you know that this bag has been around for awhile. Anyway, I told my 22-year-old son that I had found his missing youth. He suggested that I lose it again.
“I don’t want to see embarrassing pictures of myself!” he said.
“Why would they be embarrassing?” I asked.
“Because, they’re of when I was under 12,” he answered reasonably (to him, anyway). He knew that these photos were at least 10 years old because that is when we moved to the house we are in now, and he says he remembers unpacking the bag of film. He probably also remembers hiding it.
“Well, I’m developing these pictures.” I told him. “There’s a huge gap of years in your photo history.”
“My photo history? You mean those moldy pictures you keep in shoe boxes in the basement?”
“Yes, ” I said.
“And you’re going to put these new pictures in shoe boxes, too, and add them to the pile of boxes in the basement?”
“Of course. That’s where I keep your photo history.”
“Well, I guess nobody will ever see these pictures, so go ahead and get them developed,” he said, walking away.
“I will!” I yelled after him.
Now, if I can just find a place that still develops film.
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