December 16, 2024

It’s a dewy seventy-five degrees in Austin, Texas. The condensation clings to our skin on a mid-December night, droplets of the drizzle that passed through fifteen minutes earlier still caught at the ends of our hair and on the shoulders of our shirts.

My mom walks beside me on 37th Street, the two of us ambling along the dark concrete road lined with a dazzling display of holiday lights—a yearly tradition that showcases Austin’s quirkier side. Houses along the street are strung with mismatched arrays of lights, some woven through the thick branches of trees, others draped over eclectic yard displays of funky dolls and stuffed animals.

Several feet ahead of us, my partner walks parallel to my best friend from college. Their laughter is easy and natural, blending seamlessly into the hum of the street, just a decibel above the chatter of other passersby. It’s warm and fuzzy—a harmony of my two worlds colliding.

The reds and blues and yellows of the holiday lights twinkle a few feet away, illuminating the silver streaks in my mom’s hair. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her in for a tight hug. This ritual of hugs and verbal ‘I love you’s is new for us; we fumble through it, awkward but intentional.

When I first saw my mom after being away from Texas for eight months, I noticed the new silver strands weaving through her shoulder-length bob. Her face looked more tired than I remembered; unfamiliar wrinkles dot her mouth and cheeks. When I stepped into my childhood home, the growing piles of unused items, dusty boxes, and scuffed floors tugged at my heart in a way I can’t quite describe. There’s an unspoken weight in the space that’s grown in the eight months I’ve been away.

Through the years, my mom has always tried to hold on to time.

Growing up, I used to feel embarrassed by how much she photographed me and my brother. She would walk around with a disposable camera, snapping awkward candids from every angle. There are baby photos of me in pink and blue floral dresses my mom picked out for grade school; a sentimental photo of me as a baby spilling onto my dad’s lap, back when he was still alive; and an awkward tween photo from when I started dressing myself and thought rugby shirts and oversized corduroy pants would make me cooler.

My mom carried these disposable films wherever she went. There didn’t need to be an occasion—I think she just loved freezing us in time as we grew and changed before her eyes. My mom slowly built a collection of multi-colored photo albums that she still keeps stacked inside the closet. The myriad of grainy four by six photos are tucked delicately behind protective sheets in these photo albums. ‘Remember how cute you used to look?’ she’d say in Vietnamese, ribbing me with a knowing smile.

Now, at twenty-eight, I carry my own bulky silver and black camera everywhere I go, capturing the everyday bits and pieces that make my life my own. My computer is filled to the brim with digital photos of my friends and my partner laughing unabashedly; the quiet grains of moments in between; stills of their fleeting smiles, dotted with innocent joy. My partner once told me it makes her feel beautiful to be captured this much. The truth is, I feel a bit of my mom in every shutter that goes off.

On 37th Street, I walk a few steps before realizing my mom is no longer beside me. Just a beat behind, a family is singing and dancing to the music spilling out from a brightly lit canopy. A couple tap dances on an elevated wooden platform, their movements exaggerated and joyful. They dance with their arms laced together, each step echoing down the entirety of the street. I turn and spot my mom, smiling behind her phone as she records the commotion. She’s grinning her toothy grin, the glint of her glasses reflecting the kaleidoscope of lights around her. ‘There goes my mom,’ I think, smiling to myself.

I raise my camera, aim it at her, and snap.