Tangency

For the past two weeks, I have been absolutely immersed in pictures. Well, technically, they are old slides. They make my head swim with memories so much that I find it hard to focus or function. I have to work hard to eliminate this emotional obstruction - find the roots of my being and yank out the feelings so that I can think straight and see clearly what I'm dealing with - what's worth saving and what should be helped to grow and flourish. They grow so fast - emotions - like the weeds that they are.
My Dad has always taken pictures - or at least that's who I thought was taking them. Every trip, every 'occasion' - there was Dad with his camera, tennis shoes, black socks, plaid shorts, floppy hat and glasses - squinting into the viewfinder as if bunching up his nose would help in some way. Maybe my memories of "Picture time" exist because he always asked for our participation. "Smile." "Look this way." "Stand that way." This was his way of marking time and documenting historic events in the most logical, literal way. It's the way he sees the world. -Planned, executed and recorded. He's a true pragmatic German.
What I hadn't realized is that it was actually my Mother who took many of the photos that document the life we lived as very young kids. It must have been. There are lots of pictures of my Dad, cases of pictures of my brother, sister and me as kids, family members galore . . . but almost none of my Mom. As well, pictures of us as kids were taken outside during the day. My Dad should have been at work - so I'm sure he was, which meant that my Mother probably took the majority of the photos.
Despite this, I don't remember her ever asking me to pose for a picture. It simply wasn't her style. She preferred candid shots and still does.
I've never thought of her as a spectator in our lives in such a literal sense. She was home, surely. But I wonder if it was difficult for her to stand so often at arms length or if she preferred it that way. In many respects as I think on this question, I am almost certain that participating as a spectator was just about all she could handle. I won't even attempt to understand mental illness, other than to recognize it with an intuitive accuracy. Also, I believe that this was the best she could do with the increasingly damaged remains of herself within the family. I don't know why or how she was ever 'damaged', but I know the evidence of it's presence is clear in her personality.
I know that participating was to some degree exceedingly difficult for her. Mental illness captured her as she got older taking more and more of her with it as we grew. Because of this, her involvement in our lives was commensurately depleted as she grew further withdrawn, confused, agitated and eventually inebriated.
I still have my Mom's bike in my garage. This exact one. I can't believe that I a). have it, b). accepted to look after it and, c). haven't thrown it in the trash yet. But it still works and it reminds me that at some point my Mom did participate. She didn't always prefer to be alone if that's what she had to do to get away from us as a means of saving herself.
I have proof  - in Ektachrome, celluloid technicolor. I can't throw it out.