I’ve lost count of the number of consecutive rainy days. The weatherman said sun today. He was wrong.

My mother divided the family pictures and made the four of us our own albums. I am the star of my album just as my sisters and brother are the stars of theirs. A few of my pictures have all four of us and some have my parents, but they are mostly just me on our family vacations, at Christmas, Easter, my first communion and confirmation, all the holidays and all the big family events. Every now and then I look through my album. I did that yesterday and realized I need to go back in time. The biggest chunk of my life is not there. The every day is missing from my album. It was never captured by a camera. No one realized that every day memories are the ones we hold and keep.

I would take pictures of my mother doing dishes, of her bent over the sink with her hands in soapy water. I remember her standing there every night. I ‘d be at the table finishing my homework while she washed the supper dishes. I have a picture in my head, but I think it’s a combination of memories. She is wearing a white blouse and ladies’ dungarees, the kind with the zipper in the side pocket, and the dungarees are rolled up to her shins. Her hair is damp from the steam of the hot water. She puts the clean dishes in the strainer then does the pots and pans. I look up every now and then, and my memory takes its own snapshot.

I’d take pictures of my father working in the yard. In the summer he wore old pants and a white t-shirt. He’d mow the lawn then get on his hands and knees to trim the edges of the garden and around the trees. In the fall, he’d wear a red jacket, a hand me down from his father, and he’d rake the yard then burn the leaves. I remember him on the ladder putting on the storm windows. I stood below and watched and remembered.

I’d take pictures of the places where we roamed all over town. Most of them are gone now, even the railroad tracks. I’d take pictures of the field below our house in summer and in fall and of the swamp in all seasons. The winter pictures would include the back paths of the swamp where the ice was so clear I could see branches. The spring pictures would be of the tadpoles and the summer pictures would be of the frogs.

I wish we realized back then the importance of every day.