A few months after my stepfather died, I stumbled upon the Photos app on his old iPad. Jeff was not much of a photographer, and his photos proved it. As I flipped through, I saw images that mostly seemed to have been taken inadvertently, like closeups of his feet. But Jeff was gone, and I wanted more, so I kept looking.
Among accidental screengrabs, I found photos he took while lying down. Was Jeff — our curmudgeon who spent his free time reading Civil War tomes — taking selfies in the hospital? I kept going. I found image after image of my mother, standing in their kitchen or bedroom, posing in different outfits. She had presumably asked Jeff to photograph her so she could decide what to wear, and he obliged.
The more I looked, the more I found sweet moments of my mother. Images of her petting Jeff’s cats, which she insisted she didn’t care about. Others of his cats snuggled up against her. I found a series of my mother painting wildflowers at their favorite lake in Maine. Jeff had captured her from every angle.
Finding these photos, even the awkward feet ones, brought me comfort. The images were both predictable and surprising — reinforcing everything I knew about who my stepfather was, while also showing me more.
When older generations died, families would go through old photo albums and boxes of belongings. Now, when a loved one dies, we have so much more to pore over from their life — text messages, emails, to-do lists, playlists, voicemails. These digital artifacts contain life’s spontaneity and chance. They show us details and small moments that we may have otherwise missed.