Holding my wedding photo, I look down and see a snapshot of a moment almost 12 years ago. My hair up and my dress poofing out, I’m stepping down the church stairs, holding my husband’s hand. We’re both grinning the grins of those who are young, in love, and finally able to wake up next to the person they adore. On both sides of us, friends and family are blowing bubbles and cheering.

Back in the present day, my four-year-old is sitting next to me on the couch. He points to the person on my right. “Who is that?” he asks. I respond, “That’s my friend Drew and that’s Nana…” as I go through and identify everyone in the photo. No matter how many times I identify these people, my kids still ask. There’s a sense of magic in the ritual. It’s as if I’m evoking that day for them, allowing them to experience something they could never participate in.

Later on, I dig up the proofs book from the basement. Of course, I can’t find our proper, nice wedding album. Instead, these photos are on cheap paper with a watermark, just designed for us to pick the good ones. As the kids sit on either side of me, they oooh and ahhh, finding depth in paper that digital just can’t seem to match.

“There I am putting on my shoes – for some reason the photographer thought that was interesting. And there’s Pop – his hat says “Father of the Bride,” I narrate. “Careful with the pages! We don’t want them to rip!” Later on, I show them the photos of us swirling on the painted horses of a carousel. The memory brings me back to that moment in the park, fresh off of frolicking through grass, trying to express the joy in our hearts without it looking posed.

What did my kids think as they looked at those photos? Did they wonder why I looked different these days, more than a decade later? Did they wonder what our lives were like before they came along? Or instead, did they just think about how fun carousels are?

Sharing these photos with them sparked memories of me looking at old photos of my parents. In one, my dad’s smiling face shines out, framed by giant glasses and topped by a mop of curly hair that’s long since gone. He’s holding me, just a little baby in red and white striped pajamas and hat. Another photo shows my mom with long, brown hair looking into the camera with eyes that everyone says look just like mine.

Just as my kids must wonder, I wonder what my parents were like back then, in a time back further than my memory goes. Did they face the same anxieties and joys that I do now as a parent of young children? Did the future seem as scary back then or even moreso, in the midst of the Cold War? Of course, I ask them now how they felt back then. But even their own memories are tinted with the decades since. Looking at those photos, I long to reach in and talk to them right then, connect over that the raw, unfiltered experience.

In my mind, I hold both sets of photos up to compare to today. What do I see when I superimpose the past and present? Looking past the changes in hair lengths, the presence of glasses, the appearance of wrinkles, what do I really see? In both early photos, I see young people joyous at their youth, in love with their growing families. I see hope for the future, despite the challenges in store. And now? I see many of those same things, despite the years, in both my parents and myself. That hope has been passed on, from generation to generation, decade to decade.

I hope that as my grown-up children look back on photos of my husband and I, they’ll see our love for them and each other shining in our eyes. I hope they’ll recognize the hope they carry in their own hearts looking back at them.

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