The following days with Sam as his assistant were quite unfamiliar to me. I didn’t predict that I’d be working for him this quickly or working with him in particular. At the beginning, I was uncertain about many things. I got caught up in details, including unrelated concerns that didn’t pertain to my main worry. We had a couple's session at a serene area of a coffee shop, with only the four of us there including the couples. Sam took care of nearly everything while I just observed him carry out his usual work. Mostly because I can be ungainly and seeing his stuffs looks pricey and brand new, I wouldn't want to involuntarily drop them or worse. Although his job requires help, he doesn’t have any assistance from anyone. I'm not sure if he lacks trust in others or simply prefers to work alone. Considering he's handling things effectively, it's reasonable.
“For how long have you been working on this?”
“Well at first it was simply part of my routine. Taking shots of literally anything. My dad recognized the potential and helped me secure my first shoot.”
“For how long now?”
“Almost three years now.” The sole difference was that none of my past work was connected to my personal aspirations. I never had any ambition. I never experienced the sense of confidence or pride in having a purpose, not even once. It feels strange to me when I realize I don’t think much about my future or have any specific ambitions. We live in a world that’s all about setting goals and planning for success. Everyone around us seems to have their eyes set on the next big achievement or milestone. And here I am, not really feeling that drive or sense of purpose. I’ve never really felt that burning desire to accomplish something specific or to map out a detailed plan for my life. Sometimes, this lack of ambition feels unsettling, especially when I see how important it is to others. I wonder if I’m missing out on something crucial. “What about you?” I simply looked at him trying to find the right words. My mind is taking a while to react which makes the conversation awkward for me. “Do you have any interests?”
“I’m miserable and feeling depressive, do you really think I have time for that?” He asked so I answered him truthfully. All he did was avoid my gaze, as if he anticipated it.
It started pouring right after Sam wrapped up the shoot. We waited for the weather to clear and stayed for a bit longer. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No.” Yes. I’ve spent three hours waiting and I haven’t done anything. He invited me to join him so I wouldn't feel uncomfortable when actual work began, and I agreed. I'm not going to reject the fact that he's my sole choice right now. I'm also uncertain about how this type of job will work out for me. “So what are your thoughts? Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
“Nothing.” I said directly in response. “Just keep me out of taking pictures.”
“Why not? It's fun.”
“I don't know how to do it and I'd prefer not to.”
“Cari, it's easy. It's like using your phone.”
“I’d really not, Sam—”
“Here, hold this.” He handed me the camera. It was a clement afternoon and I remember I was wearing this rose-colored frock dress my Mom made me wear when my eighth birthday came. She surprised me with a camera wrapped around some paper drawings which I still remember clearly. I was quite attached to it, wearing it around my neck all day. It was the first present I got, as previous birthdays typically involved just muffins with a single candle. She made sure to capture every moment she could. I look back and remember all the photos, as if she anticipated her passing and wanted to ensure I kept them as a special reminder from her, because everything was in there. I genuinely don't want to look back on it, but my mind can't let go of it in the present. It's my valued keepsake.
“And just press this.” Sam directed me with his camera before capturing a shot.
“Do I just get a shot of anything?”
“Sure. How about you take a photo of me?” He immediately stood in front of me with a broad smile. “Seriously?”
“Oh hey, you're smiling.”
“That’s not a big deal.”
“It is if you look great when you smile.” And now he's just being funny. When the rain stopped, Sam brought me back home. I stayed silent during the drive. He played some slow music and I wasn’t fond of his taste. The scent of his air conditioning also made me feel queasy, but luckily I didn't end up retching. His vehicle appears to be entirely polished, it'd be a total disaster to throw filth all over it. When I came in, Dad was sorting things with what looked like an old trunk. From what I remember he gathered those for his equipment and put labels on each. I was constantly confused when I was younger and now it feels entirely different watching him move it again. “Hey, you're home.”
“I’m just—well, putting your Mom's stuff in these.” He added. I didn’t even recognize it as Mom’s until he mentioned it. Every time I come home and see her things treated like trash while he ignores them, it makes me uncomfortable, and now he’s sorting them as if Mom instructed him to. “Did you hang out with Laurel?”
“I was with Sam. I'm working with him.”
“Who’s this Sam?”
“I met him because of Laurel.” He doesn't have to know that Sam actually saw me at my lowest.
“Did you get any food?” I asked with the hope that he had brought something just to see if he’s making progress with the housework, as a starting point.
“I think there might be some chicken left over there.”
When I opened the refrigerator I was hit with a stale odor that made me cough and wish I hadn't opened it. I overlooked the fact that it's not something we frequently use here. “Dad, why did you leave it here? It smells inside.”
“I thought I had taken care of that earlier, Cari.” He said while casting me an apologetic stare. It no longer matters because my appetite disappeared in no time. Might as well forget about it and call it a night.
“She was radiant with happiness in these photos.” I see the way his fingers gently trace the edges of each photograph, as if trying to hold onto something that time itself has sought to take away. There is a quiet sadness in his gaze, a profound sense of loss that seems to weigh heavily upon him. The photos are not just snapshots of happier times, they are echoes of a past that can never be relived. Yet, they serve as a bittersweet reminder of what once was, and the void that remains. I know that my father’s sadness is not just about missing her presence but about the life they once shared like dreams and simple everyday moments that now only exist in these photographs. He misses her more than words can express and it is through these silent, solitary moments with her images that his grief finds an outlet. “Do you remember this, Cari?”
It’s not that I don’t want to remember her, it’s that seeing her so full of life creates a sharp contrast to the absence I now feel. There is a poignant sadness in seeing her captured so vividly while knowing that she is no longer here. The photographs serve as a reminder of her absence and rather than bringing comfort, they often bring an overwhelming sense of loss. It is as if each picture is a window to a past that I cannot revisit and each glance at these memories intensifies the ache of her absence.
“I’ve got some work to do, I’ll be in my room.”
As soon as I entered my room I stood behind the door trying to hold back my tears. I want to be near her and I felt ashamed for appearing like I didn’t care, because that would be a complete lie. And I never stopped caring. I think about her all the time. No one wished for this to happen but it did, and it's causing so much pain that I fear I may never recover or be of any use to anyone. Is it because I constantly tell myself that I’ll never heal and have always thought there’s nothing for me to move forward with? I’ll never find answers to my own questions. But one thing I’m sure of is that I can’t look at her photos without falling apart. I just can't. It will cause even more anguish and increase my pain, leading me to wish I had never existed. The act of handling these things feels like an intrusion into a past I can no longer fully embrace. The distance I place between myself and her memories is not a rejection of her, but a way to manage the intensity of my feelings.
