It is difficult when you do not yet have a memorable thing, one which you can easily describe, remembering each detail of the story that links the thing with you. Sharing even a very little, tiny memory with someone can allow them to learn what your life looks like and who you are. But what if you have nothing to describe? It turns out that you`re nobody, aren’t you? It seems that for all eighteen, almost nineteen, years that I have been living, I have not left a single mark in the world; I do not have anything to share. Looking around my flat, I am trying to find something valuable, interesting, something to talk about for this essay. It could be one of so many objects, such as a handmade diary from one’s childhood; a family red box, cracking due to the numerous magnets from different countries…but where are these things? I am sitting in my room, but it feels like I am in the middle of a desert; nothing grabs my attention. The only thing I can notice is the frustration in my head. I am in a vacuum, in the world of intangible things called a head. Things are important because, from my perspective, they store the colourful emotions that we carefully collect from beautiful moments in our lives. No things, no emotions. I do not have anything here. Maybe my life is not as vivid as I thought? I should just accept that my life seems to be empty, poor, boring, like a set of black and white pictures that you… wait… pictures?
My head turns to the right and I see a small photograph lying on a shelf of my IKEA wardrobe, which I built the previous Sunday. I moved to Canada only a couple of months ago and have not even completely furnished my apartment yet. When I was preparing for the move, I had a goal to take everything necessary with me. But what does “necessary” mean? It meant that when I arrived in Toronto, I had two enormous bags that were full of clothes and documents only. Zealous tourists would agree that when crossing boarders between countries, you always risk leaving a lot of money on an airport’s registration deck because the baggage is overweight. That is why I could not bring valuable (but “unnecessary”) things with me. I remember that handmade diary from 2007, and that red box, which my father bought because we had a lot of fridge magnets but my mom did not like having something sticking to a metal fridge’s surface. Perhaps she enters my room from time to time and looks at all my personal things in the place that I miss, the place where I spent my childhood. Anyway, back to my actual situation, here, in Toronto: I have only one small photo, the only thing that connects me to my home.
Now, I am looking at this photograph. Interestingly, the most important thing for me in Toronto can fit in the palm of my hand. I’m not kidding: the photo is no more than the size of a UofT student’s TCard! I took this special photo using my polaroid, the modern version of the very first instant camera from the twentieth century, which immediately prints the photographs after the snapshot. Polaroids are coming back into fashion and nowadays it’s a very popular device. The frames surrounding the images of such photos are always identical: three proportionally even, white, smooth lines, with the fourth one on the bottom wider than the others. I think the fourth line is this wide to enable the signing of the printed pictures. And there is my signature—the day when I took this photo: August 21, 2019.
It was the last summer before my move from Saint Petersburg. I was sitting with my grandmother in our favourite café, “Garçon.” Although we had never been to France, we had a soft spot for cozy French cafes selling warm, crunchy croissants. That day, I ordered two croissants and two lattes in high glass cups with straws in them. These tasty things occupied half the surface of the table, which is depicted in the foreground of my photograph. The table was old. There were some bumps and cracks, but I think they only made the table more valuable and interesting. Finally, in the middle of the picture, there was my grandmother, dressed in a white wool sweater with an image of a deer (yes, even in summer she usually dresses in wool clothes because the weather is always cold for her).
To describe her special image more precisely, I can say that posing in front of my camera, she was so natural. As a photographer, I have taken an enormous number of pictures in my life, but this sincerity, calmness, and lightness are possessed in my grandmother’s image only. Leaning on the table and smiling with her sad, gorgeous smile, she was lit by the beautiful warm gold sunlight, which is very rare in my city. Although there were some people entering the café in the blurred background of the picture, my grandma was very focused, looking at me and thinking. There is a distinct aura around her. Even in the picture, you can see that the contour of her figure is shining. Of course, it could be due to the bright sunlight, but I do not believe this. I think there is something special in this picture. It can immediately transfer me to my city, my room, and this café. Touching the photo’s surface allows me to feel near my family. I can hug them. I can hug my grandmother, and she will be crying and smiling. I will be doing the same. At the moment when this picture was taken, she and I probably had the same thought in our minds: how much we would miss each other when I moved.
I flip over this two-grams-in-weight teleport and see the words, written by her hand: “Моей внучке, Лидочке. Я очень сильно тебя люблю. Ничего не бойся, ты особенная!” (“To my granddaughter, Lidiia. I love you so much. Do not fear anything, you are special!”)
