Ready in Minutes

It's hard not to blink. (Photo by author.)

They have a look all their own — those instant photos that come out of the machine at the mall.

Two dollars. Four poses. Ready in minutes.

You retrieve them from the chute, damp and sticky even after the blower shuts off.

Forced smiles. Awkward, made-up expressions. It's hard not to blink.

The features are always blurry, the colors dark and run together or washed out when the chemicals need changing.

Call them a keepsake, a memento, a souvenir that goes home in a pocket to be set aside, forgotten like dreams and other things you buy.

Then one day you discover them in a drawer of stuff that mattered once and marvel at who you were and who you've become and how the time has passed.

There's only one thing left to do.

Choose.

Save them for a rainy day? Another rainy day like today.

Or —

Embrace the knowledge that no one really cares. There's no one coming after you to whom they matter.

The landfill awaits. Everything you ever cherished or thought you cherished or might cherish.

Everything in that drawer and on that shelf and in that box in the closet.

Take one last look. Go on. It won't hurt any more than it has to.

Then say good-bye.

Put on a smile. It will brighten the day of the guy or gal who has to close the drawer — the one made of stainless steel that has you in it.

There's only one thing left to do. (Photo by author.)