This morning I found my father’s Yashica. Beat up and faded. The strap frayed and unraveling. The Yashica from Ogunquit and Kitty Hawk, and that deserted beach in Cape Hatteras - before surfboards and a thousand tourists.
The Yashica from wide eyed pictures on Christmas mornings, Easter, birthdays. And all those other moments: the quiet and undefined, the ones that somehow end up meaning the most.
The same Yashica from that long lost Saturday where my young sister looked up to me like the big brother that I was. And my father snapped the famous picture that still hangs on the wall in my parent’s house; which is now my mother’s house.
Because some things linger. But others disappear.
This morning I found my father’s Yashica. And I could almost smell his cigarette.