Tag: digital

Candid shots and unexpected Live Photos

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what’s the value of two hundred short video clips?

Her celebration of life is very soon, and so I had to go wading through photos to help find some to print. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect to lose it completely. To be perfectly frank, I had a sobbing meltdown. Not because of the “nice” ones that made the social media cut, though.

Because of the outtakes in selfies with her partner where you can see these pure, loving glances between the two of them.

Because of the photos that show the way my sister’s face wrinkled up when she genuinely laughed.

Because of the fifteen photos in a row with her tongue out and her eyes wide with amusement.

Because of the unexpected two hundred 1-to-3 second clips her old iPhone captured when Live Photo was turned on, some of which contained her voice.

Because of the articles of clothing in the photos, some now hanging in my closet.

Because of the number of photos she took at times, trying to find one she liked, when she looked beautiful in every single one.

Because there will never be another photo with her in it.

Painful digital reminders

“…the spans of time between the timestamps left me breathless with painful regret.”

There are all kinds of small, digital artifacts that exacerbated the pain in those first days. They still gnaw at me in the weeks and months after. It’s been 73 days, and while I have let go of some of my digital compulsions from early on, it’s still painful.

The two gray check marks on the family WhatsApp chat that would never turn blue, because they were sent after she died. (We recreated a new chat without her, without discussing it, because we all saw the same thing.)

The sent-but-not-delivered check mark in a circle on Messenger, for messages I regretted sending as soon as I did. (I couldn’t stop myself.)

Her username in Discord groups, forever offline. (It was set at just “away” and her partner had to go onto her computer and put her offline, because it was distressing her friends.)

Her number in my contacts, under the nickname we used for each other for at least ten years. Someday another person will have that number. I try not to think about how my soul would entirely leave my body if, by some cosmic horror of an error, the new owner of the phone called me. (I would fall apart, no matter where I was.)

The last silly Instagram DM I’d sent her, a video of something that would’ve made her smile. (I wish I’d sent so many more.)

Internet and digital technology has brought this incredible ability to be connected to people no matter the distance, but it also archives our every message, post, and choice. I cherish the message history I do have, but the spans of time between the timestamps left me breathless with painful regret.

I’m angry with my past self for not backing up old text message threads when I upgraded phones.

I judge every word in every message now ⁠— Why didn’t I say more? Why didn’t I reach out daily? Why didn’t I see what I see now and take advantage of what I had when I could?

And so I’ve had to archive these things, at least for now. I went to her pages so many times that the apps and website all recommended her first. I broke 41 days in and sent a message to her on Messenger, which pulled her profile picture to the top of the pile. I had to gently put them on the digital shelf, so I could interact with my digital world on my own terms. And I hate that I had to.

I became her unofficial biographer

I find myself searching for every photo, post, and story of my sister that I can find. Like I’m researching a biography I won’t actually write.

My sister’s death kicked off an impulsive desire to hoard. Not physical things, but relics of her existence. Photos, message history, screenshots of her social media posts so I could keep not only the photos but the things she said about them, and when. I have thousands of photos now, mostly from 2016 to early 2020, but it doesn’t satisfy me.

I wonder if some part of my subconscious thinks that I can scrape together enough two-dimensional moments in time that somehow the sum of their parts is her. No matter how many times I affirm to myself that finding more photos won’t change the fact that she is gone, she is dead, I can’t stop. It’s practically compulsive.

Every time someone tells me a story about her, as soon as it won’t look weird, I jot notes down. I home and flesh out the story to the best of my ability. Memory is so unreliable, I want to externalize every single scrap of information I can.

It is starting to feel like I am her biographer. Unofficially, of course. And my focus is so intently on the years since we stopped living in the same home. In 2013 I left the country and she went off to school. Our lives diverged, and I stopped knowing the day-by-day realities of her life. That was okay with me when she was just a text or phone call away, but now that I have lost her, I want every bit of her that ever existed before.

I can’t tell you if this is healthy or healing in any way, but it has given me purpose around my constant thoughts of her, so for now, it will continue.