AMADOR | From Backpacks to Briefcases

A few weeks ago, my mother sent me an image of herself from 2001. She was 22. Young and moody. She argued the last two decades have aged her unforgivingly, in body and in spirit — and have done so in the blink of an eye. 

I spent a considerable amount of time staring at this picture: both in awe of the resemblance in our youth, but also in doubt that much has changed since that image was captured. She looks the same; perhaps not as much a victim to an aged face than to the accouterments of adulthood. 

In a week I’ll be graduating. I’ll be 22, too — young and moody. Yet I’ve dreaded the idea of being photographed. Every smile caught on film failing to capture the indescribable but banal fear that comes with adulthood. Or rather a fear that I’ll look back to those moments in painful reminiscence. 

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